Airduct Anecdotes Anthology
by Quillon42
Summary: Series of stories about various Dead Rising survivors
1. The Agony of Adamac

SEPTEMBER 18TH, 4:00PM

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, wayfarers and Willamettans alike, please give a peppy Park View Mall welcome to Wonderland Plaza's joyful joke-star…"

Adam mentally blocked out the rest of his introduction; he didn't want to hear the name they had for him again, his ears would explode. "Juggles the Clown"…God, he despised that so. He just set to tumbling his way onto the giant soccer ball and greeted his audience with a gleeful, genuine smile.

"Well hell-hell-hello there, kiddies!" he shouted in a high-pitched intonation.

He proceeded to go through all of his acts with undying vigor. First, living up to the awful name he was given, he took to juggling several objects at once. They changed from time to time, though not often enough; recently he was given to tossing up lipstick props from a nearby cosmetic boutique. He would improvise on occasion and pretend to paint his face with the lipstick, then gently press the prop on a little girl's face, making her and everyone else bust out laughing and clapping. Adam would roll and tumble about too, saying "yee-ha" all the while, enough times to establish a trademark on the exclamation. He would close with a really entertaining, unexpected act that even Adam couldn't believe the management at Willamette thought up.

"Now it's time for Juggles' Bubbles!" Adam bent over and picked up a bright blue bottle, then drank deeply from it.

"HIC"

Seconds later, a bright array of bubbles streamed out of his mouth. The audience roared in approval.

"HIC"

Another cluster of the little floaters. The kids were all about this.

"HIC" And on and on. The crowd applauded Adam heartily.

This was the moment at which he felt most high, even though he never reached the height of satisfaction he did in his previous job. Back at the other mall where he performed, he went by Adamac, a simple amalgamation of his first and part of his last name. It was nice because it was his own thing, in terms of the name he had as well as the repertoire he chose. When he first started at Wonderland, he saw the giant soccer ball and thought that maybe "Cleats the Clown" might be a neat idea, and that he could base some of his routine around that; but the management was so intractable. This was the big time; there was no room for an amateur act like Adamac, or whatever other act Adam invented, at the Park View. Besides, there had already been a tradition of Juggleses over the years, and Adam was privileged to be next to wear the wig.

He honestly and sincerely loved the work, though. It was an achievement to make people laugh, and he relished in the bliss of it all when they laughed at him. It meant that he was doing his job well. He thrived on being the punchline.

Adam looked around the Plaza to see if there were some other children for whom he could perform various sundry parlor tricks. There were a couple of cute little guys at Small Fry Duds, a little girl crying at Estelle's Fine-lady Cosmetics—aw, he would definitely have to cheer her up. But as Adam was fixing up to head over there, he caught sight of his lady love at Casual Gals. He executed an awkward tumblesauce, rolling in the direction of Debbie Willett.

She put her face in her hand in mock embarrassment at first upon seeing him, then cocked her head coquettishly and waved. After pleasing crowds of consumers and doing what he loved all morning and afternoon, this transaction had completed Adam's day. He was so glad that Debbie finally separated from her husband, the old coot. Now the two of them could pursue their desires to the limits of their imagination and beyond.

Debbie placed a hand aside her ear and extended her thumb and small finger, mouthing to Adam to call her later. He knew she was in a hurry to do a lot more things today than just hang around at the mall. But she sincerely felt for him, harbored the same passion towards him as he did towards his art.

"Looks like there's no trouble in Paradise today…or should I say, Wonderland," a voice piped up from behind the clown.

"Greg, hey," Adam replied in his normal alto voice, at the same time relieved and repulsed to see the manager of the Plaza. Greg used to be a maintenance man at the mall, but after several years of service and a slew of part time education, he moved up into management. Somewhere along the way, he lost the empathy he had stored up for the honest laborer, and was not very amenable to the requests of employees. Adam was eager to bounce some work ideas off of Greg, but he dreaded the thought of the conversation because he knew he would probably get nowhere with him.

"Hey, Greg, I was wondering—I've been working with the same lipstick props for the past week or so. Since I am 'Juggles,' after all, shouldn't I be tossing some newer stuff a bit more often?"

"I hear ya, Adam, and I'm sorry, but, we need to reserve some more of our budget for repairs on the space ride."

The space ride. The space ride. All he ever heard about from Greg was the God damn space ride. These days, kids' minds and attention spans were being wasted on bells, whistles, video games, and friggin' space rides. Where was the appreciation for the older, more time-honored arts, like that of fooling, of clowning?

He was so tired of it. "I can't believe you're doing this to me, Greg. You were a laborer once…"

"And I'm in charge now. It's a different thing altogether. The space ride is what draws people here, Adam. Children come here for the ride more than anything else. Live entertainment in malls is starting to fade as a trend. People don't want to bother with that; they want to walk, they want to shop, and sometimes they have a need to distract their kids with something mindless. The space ride is ideal for that."

"Greg, this is a shopping mall, not an amusement park."

"And it's not a circus either—Clowny." Adam hated it when Greg called him that. "Willamette takes all sorts of liberties with the themes of things here. Next you'll be saying, 'It's a food court, not a Wild West reenactment.'"

Adam glared at Greg. "This job was supposed to be fun," he said wistfully.

"Fun?! Look, Adam, the bottom line is this: if the ride stops, then the children won't come back. And that won't be any fun at all. Not for the kids, not for the customers…and certainly not for management."

Adam was left with nothing to say.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go tend to something on the other end of the Plaza." Greg walked off. The clown sneered after the manager, determined to "tend to" him one of these days.

"Mr. Juggles?"

Adam turned around. It was the little girl who was crying in Estelle's. It was like fate. He really needed this at the moment, to resuscitate his spirit.

"Hi, little girl!" he said jovially, reverting to his high-pitched voice in an instant.

"I loved your show, Mr. Juggles. It was amazing."

"Aww, you're too sweet. Did you just see the last one?"

"No…I was so sad because I wanted to be in the crowd but I was stuck in a store."

Just then a fairly tall, imposing man made his way over to the pair.

"Oh, Mr.—Mr. Juggles!" the little girl became so excited. "This is my Gramps!"

Adam smiled big and wide. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Gramps." The tall man nodded pleasantly and reflected the clown's smile back at him.

"So…little girl and Gramps…" Adam craned his head down toward the girl, making her giggle. "What should I call a lady so dainty and darling?"

"I'm Claire," she replied cheerily. "Claire Hudson."

"Well it's a pleasure to meet you, Claire!" Adam then looked up at the tall man, who blushed a little in spite of himself. "And you, sir?"

"I'm Cliff. Nice to meet you, Juggles." Cliff seemed somewhat intimidating in terms of his size, but he was tender in his demeanor. _He's probably a wonderful man to her,_ he thought. _Perhaps Debbie could help me play this part, in time._

Adam was overjoyed to have an interim audience between shows. He proceeded to blow up a couple of balloons for little Claire and make them into all sorts of funny shapes. He stood on his head and jumped all around, making the girl double over laughing. He still had some bubble film in his throat left over from the last show, so he coughed it up a bit, causing the little one to chortle endlessly. Adam even made Cliff crack up a couple of times with his antics.

"You…you are too much, Mr. Juggles," Claire peeped, in between laughs. "Oh, Gramps, I'm so happy now! We're having so much fun today, and I can't wait till tomorrow too when you take me to the zoo!"

"Oh, the zoo, huh?" Adam squealed.

"Yeah. I've gone lots of times, but Gramps has never been, at least not in a while. I love the polar bears, but he's really into the monkey and ape exhibits and he wants me to show them to him, isn't that right, Gramps?"

"That's right," Cliff chimed in, grinning and picking an ecstatic Claire up of the ground. "You, little lady, are gonna tell me where the gorillas' hangout is…"

"Hee hee hee," she squeaked.

"Or else…heh, heh, or else…when I'm through _tickling_ the information out of you, heh, you're gonna be begging your Mom and Dad to take you away."

"Hee hee ha ha ha…" The little girl was beside herself. "You're so goofy, Gramps." She looked back to Adam. "Oh, Mr. Juggles, can I come to your next show?"

Adam was happy to receive the attention once more. "What, are you crazy?! Of course you can! You and Gramps will be front row center, I gar-ron-tee it!"

"Oh, boy! This is gonna be the best ever…come on, Gramps!" The little girl pulled her grandfather by the sleeve, guiding him towards the seats near the giant soccer ball.

About twenty-five minutes later, Adam was all set for the next performance. This would be his best show of the day, and having Claire and Cliff in the front row made it so very nice.

This time he was going to open with the bubbles. He took a long swig from the bright blue bottle, and when the corny introduction was through, he bounded out from behind the soccer ball again to start his first act.

After making a couple of quick wisecracks, Adam closed his eyes and pretended to rear back, as if to first hold back, then release a magnificent sneeze. The bubbles would all come shooting out of his nose, and the audience would riot.

"Ahh—"

"Ahh—ch"

"AAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Adam opened his eyes. His audience was suddenly larger than he first saw it to be at the start, but, the stragglers coming in weren't there for the show.

People ran screaming, or at least most of them tried to. In mere seconds, many of them didn't have the legs or mouths to do so. Adam found himself surrounded by sounds spawned from horror rather than humor.

"Mommy!"

"Daddy!"

"CLAIRE!"  
"GRAMPS!"

As he stood flanked on all sides by shrieks of despair, and not snickers of delight, the residue from the bubbles began to burn up, strangely, in the clown's throat.


	2. May Day for Madonna

It was that damn dog.

Freddie May had never seen this "Madonna" before, about which that old prune was cranking on and on, and for which the others were determined to tie her to one of the upended benches. But the instant he spied the mangy creature working its way through the legs of countless undead, he knew it had to be her. Freddie exchanged looks with Chris nearby and they knew they shared the same thought: the nutjob can't know.

The prune, the nutjob in question, Old Lady Lindsay Harris, was standing right there about twenty yards away. Fortunately, she appeared distant, her eyes wildly pinballing about, as if trying to calculate every last permutation regarding where her beloved pet could possibly be. She was not yet aware that Madonna was only mere meters away, a dismembered arm from elbow to fingertip lodged in her chops.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Freddie May had no desire to leave the Willamette Park View Mall. He had toiled there endless hours, days, and years as an inhouse maintenance man, fixing things here and there, and would also sometimes function as a meeter-and-greeter at the front door of the Entrance Plaza. This Plaza was his favorite of all of them. At first he loved it because it was one of the areas where he could see new fawning faces and old solid shoppers alike, where he could witness the miracle of commerce commence every day. Later he began to love it because it was one of the areas closest to the parking lots, where he could catch his ride out of there.

But today was another story altogether. As Ryan suggested earlier, his eyes bulging as if he wore Size -53,594 underwear: they should all be safe inside the mall. For once in several years, Freddie did not look longingly at the parking lot.

He couldn't help take his eyes from the animal before him, however. Freddie knew that he had to keep Lindsay from seeing her. Madonna's eyes met those of the maintenance man, and he saw her bite harder into the detached forearm, as if to declare her intention to foil his every machination.

The dog darted left, and Freddie threw down an old plant directly in front of her position. She sped off to the right, and he placed a "clearance sale" easel against the glass. To his infinite relief, Ryan and Chris started doing the same thing, making all efforts to obscure the dog from its owner's view. Even through all of the debris, however, Freddie could see Madonna working her way through the deceased crowd without a single hindrance. He couldn't believe that the animal was moving so quickly, weaving so effortlessly through an impossible sea of feet.

Freddie could make out the dog's face through one of the standing benches' slats. He saw Madonna, sitting defiantly amongst the mob. She would not be so easily thwarted. The dog dropped the forearm from its maw and began to whine.

Freddie turned to face Lindsay, making sure she was still not catching on yet, and began to whistle over the canine's sound. He could hear Madonna grrrrrrr-ing at him, and in response he cleared his throat…loudly. He looked back towards the pesky pet.

The dog reared up on her hind legs for an instant, opening and closing its mouth inexplicably. Then:

"BARK! BARK! BARK!"

Freddie involuntarily shot a glance back at Lindsay. She looked to be still in a daze, somewhat, but this report made her start. The maintenance man knew he had but a few seconds. …He had it.

"BARK!"

"MARK! MARK! MARK! MARK MARK MARK MARK!" Freddie blurted out, doing his best to match the dog's speed and pitch. Sure enough, the riled up young man was upon him a moment later.

"What! What, are they coming in?" Mark Quemada demanded, his baseball bat most definitely at the ready. "I'll kill them all! I won't let them take me!"

Freddie first shot a glance back toward Lindsay to see what she was doing. Thank some divine power above, the maintenance man's shouts had distracted her from the dog's baying outside, and a moment later she was back in her semi-senile trance. He then spun around to view Madonna once again as the dog, defeated, lowered her head, opened her jaws, and reclaimed her dismembered meal.

She looked almost sinister, however, as she sat still amongst the undead, wagging her tail and piercing through the maintenance man with a steady gaze.

In his peripherals, Freddie could sense Mark still by his side, gawking out at the monsters before them.

"It's nothing, Mark. False alarm. I'm sorry."

Mark let out a deep breath. "Allright. Let me know when they start to break through. I'll be ready." The kid retreated from the front doors.

Freddie too let himself breathe out thoroughly, then back in again. He squeezed his eyes shut to clear his mind, then looked around to collect himself. He saw that Lindsay was thankfully still in a stupor. He saw Mark starting to calm down a bit actually, and it made him relax in turn.

Then he saw Verlene wave and smile at him, and he began to drown in emotion.

Verlene Willis was not a new fawning face to the Willamette Park View, but rather one of the old solid shoppers…or should Freddie say, young solid shoppers. Very young. He was quite fond of her, and he worshipped at the altar of her resplendent smile. He wondered if she ever knew how he felt as he would obsequiously greet her from time to time over the past few years at the front door to Entrance, even daring to make light conversation from time to time. They were acquaintances of a pleasant sort.

She was lithe, though; she was slinky. Sexy. Verlene was…very lean, and very alluring. Freddie couldn't help but lean, himself, against one of the benches in his reverie after seeing that smile. He wanted so to be in the place where that girl lay, to whom his love was tending. To lie quasi-prone while Verlene watched over him, looking deep into his eyes, telling him it would be okay, gently stroking his arm. Then, in time, her breath against his cheek, her mouth against his flesh, her lips parting to say three words he had been longing to hear. Three words…he could see her saying them now…

"Madonna! My baby!"

He didn't even hear the entrance gate coming up, that same gate he opened and closed every day for the last nine years. Freddie almost fell over as Lindsay bulleted straight toward the glass doors, going almost straight through him.

One of the last sights he experienced was that of the dog dropping the forearm from its jaws again and baring its teeth, in what appeared to be a sick sort of grin.

In the ensuing moments, a figure would hover over Freddie as he lay quasi-prone, a figure stroking his arm.

A mouth against his flesh.

But it wouldn't be Verlene's.


	3. Park View's Love Trapezoid

Tonya bowed downward to kiss Ross passionately on the lips. His own parched mouth responded readily. The two lovers remained prostrate in an amorous position for a half hour mall time, or two and a half minutes real time.

The rest of the survivor room gazed at the pair of lovers tenderly, the sight making them forget the horrors they had witnessed throughout their latest stay at Willamette Mall. Paul's heart was set afire, just as his pants were hours earlier. _Seeing humans sucking face is quite different from watching zombies sucking brains,_ the ex-psychopath thought as he looked on, marveling at the couple.

Floyd was quite piqued as well, as he viewed the intimate exchange as a living manifestation of the art he wanted so passionately to embrace. He would readily admit that he would have been even happier, however, with that bottle of wine in his hand, as he had asked for quite a while ago. With the help of the grape, amongst this chamber of twelve, one pair spooning would in time become six.

Just as Floyd was imagining the implications of the introduction of fine spirits into his cozy environs, Frank burst in, slamming the door open and again knocking poor Susan onto her rear. She was nothing but dentures and artificial joints by this point in her life, and at her age her durability was beyond all warranty.

"Oh, Susan, here," Tonya started, removing herself from Ross' grasp to assist the elderly woman. Ross' face regressed in hue from blushing to ashen in a mere instant. She was always doing this to him. One moment Tonya would tell someone she would not go anywhere without Ross, and the next she would be flitting about in other peoples' business, leaving him far, far behind.

Ross looked around to smile sheepishly at the others in the room. Simone laughed lightly, and Rachel shrugged.

But Sally stared right through him.

"Here, Floyd, I snuck this bottle in for ya, go to town on it," Frank told Floyd. At once the old man's face brightened. He gladly received the liquor from the journalistic hero, and shook it high above his head.

"This beats your cocktails anyday, youngen," he said to Paul.

Frank raised his small chainsaw in salute to the jocose old codger, then set off again towards Otis, Greg, and the air vent.

Tonya was still tending to Susan, Ross noticed. He glanced around and saw that Jolie and Rachel were back to gabbing endlessly, Paul was minding his molotov collection, and noticing Debbie and Mindy watching him somewhat uneasily.

Sally was coming straight toward him.

Ross gazed down shyly, pretending not to notice Sally's sneaker shunt softly into the side of his prone leg.

"You allright there, Casanova?" she said.

"Hmm?" Ross looked up a bit wryly, trying not to take in the full brunt of her beauty. She had looks, and from what he could see in that small, rusty cell-like area he occupied, spunk and strength as well. Tonya was a catch, but this...this looked like a keeper.

"I said are you allright. You look a bit pale."

"Oh, it's nothing. Just sitting around a bit too long, I guess."

"I'm Sally. You might have already known..." She felt a bit silly, dimly remembering how Otis would make a hasty introduction for every survivor who was ushered into the room. Of course Ross knew.

"Yeah, I'm, I'm Ross."

A pause.

"So what do you think of this whole thing?" Sally offered.

"Oh...oh, it's terrible." Ross couldn't think of anything to say. Another few seconds of awkward silence bled by. He pointed over to a corner, where Nick was sleeping.

"Your boyfriend seems a bit worn out from all this too."

Sally laughed heartily. "Him? He's not my boyfriend. He's my brother."

"Your brother?!"

"I know; mean, he's my adoptive brother. His father, Drummond Evans, adopted me when I was an infant. Nick and I, we just hang around."

"Oh."

One more halting, pregnant pause.

"You know, Ross...I don't know how much longer we'll have here..."

She looked at him slyly.

Tonya was having a rollicking time discussing the progression of hard candy issuance over the decades with Susan. The old woman was in much better humor, thanks in part to a fingerful or two of Floyd's wine. And Tonya was feeling better by the second as well. Though she found solace for her pain in Ross, she found replenishing comfort in Susan. _God, was this ever good conversation!_ she thought. _Ross could never provide me with anything so scintillating._ She even found she had to giggle a little, and let herself go, snickering all the while.

When she and Ross left this hell of a mall, Tonya resolved, she would make life that much more titillating and thrilling for her man,

She kept laughing for a bit longer, but then found herself somewhat puzzled when she thought she was hearing laughing coming from outside of herself as well. Tonya looked over at Susan, and saw a shocked look on the elderly lady's face.

Tonya slowly turned her head again, following the others' gazes to a prostrate Ross and Sally.

Just then the survivor room door burst open again, heralding the return of Frank West. "Simone?" he asked.

The young, pretty blonde woman stood up with some effort, smiling as Frank reached into his seemingly bottomless pockets to produce a small handgun.

"I scored one of these for you as requested...though I'm not sure what you want to do with it," Frank said. Simone grinned, relieved, and reached over to take the weapon.

A hand shot in between them and whisked away the handgun, and held the fatal object high in the air for a second.

"She's not the one who needs it," Tonya said, then thrusting the gun towards Ross. "I am."


	4. Shinji's Mutiny

The rear right survivor room was beginning to become awfully crowded, and seemed to get smaller by the second. For some reason, Kay Nelson and Leroy McKenna were tussling about something asinine--fashion sense or something or other. Janet Star would occasionally pace back and forth and offer her two cents as well. Still others, like Lilly Deacon and Kelly Carpenter, would do nothing but stare at the floor, forlornly.

Alyssa Laurent and her "friends," Jonathan Picardsen and Brett Styles, had been occupying the chamber for about twelve hours. Until their foray into the firearms shop, Alyssa was actually in bright spirits, in spite of the impending catastrophe before her. She tried to remain optimistic and find the silver lining in all this. _Well_, she said to herself, _this can't become as bad as the situation my cousin Alyssa told me about in Raccoon City._ Her aunt was pretty much scarred by the outbreak there; and Alyssa Ashcroft did not scar easily.

When the three gunwielding survivalists reached the Huntin' Shack, however, Alyssa was beginning to grow a bit tired of her companions. Brett and Jonathan seemed decent at first, and even a bit cute (though Brett's hair was so twenty years ago), but they quickly became unbearable. Giving her the smallest gun to use while they hoarded the automatic weapons. Drinking all of the shop proprietor's wine and offering her none. Repeatedly calling her "son of a even though she was a woman.

"We'll man the liquor and the big guns, baby," Brett said to her at the shop. "This is nice, isn't it, Jonathan? Wine, women, and song, all behind the counter here."

_Okay, "Brett Styles,"_ Alyssa thought. She wondered if that was even his real name. Poser.

But now it was all different; they were no longer a group of freewheeling survivalists on their own, but rather survivor cattle, corraled into a small cubbyhole of a room tended to by mall personnel.

And yet, glancing forward and meeting the handsome Japanese man's eyes across the room, Alyssa really didn't mind so much.

He seemed quiet, but strong in a reserved way. The man boldly strode across the room, lightly grasping a rambunctious Kay by the shoulder on his way over and moving her aside so that he could stand by Alyssa. He bowed to her. "Yuu," he said.

_"Me" what?_ thought Alyssa as she looked at him, then, realizing what he meant as he started pointing to himself, smiled and said, "Alyssa" in return.

She noticed that the man was holding some sort of magazine. He pointed down to a page and said to her, "Suki desu." He then handed her the periodical.

Alyssa didn't know what to make of this at first, but looked down and saw a phrase magically appear in neon letters:

"I love you."

_He's a bit direct_, she thought, taken aback a bit. _But I like a man with confidence._ _Unlike guys who play with their guns all the time like those two ass clowns I came with._

The two of them didn't care that there were ten other survivors in the room by this point. Taking Alyssa by the hand, Yuu guided her to the back of their survivor room. Kay and Leroy turned their heads and immediately stopped arguing, their jaws dropping to the floor.

"Hurry to the maintenance tunnels, Frank!" Isabela pleaded into the transceiver. The brave journalist was on his way to undo her brother's explosive machinations and save them all from imminent destruction. Isabela could do nothing at this point but sit there, like all the others, watching the cameras, waiting, hoping.

Suddenly: "OH, YUU!"

_Oh brother,_ Isabela thought to herself. _There goes Heather with her "Oh, you" phrase, over and over again._

But then she stopped and turned her head. _Wait a second, _she thought. _That's not Heather._

"OH, YUU!" "OH, YUU!"

Suddenly ten survivors burst into the monitor room, with the pudgy Japanese man taking the lead. What was his name. _Shinji,_ Isabela remembered,

Shinji burst into an extensive string of expletives and other rants, all in Japanese. Isabela held her head in her hands, unable to understand him. An older man hobbled forward.

"I speak Japanese," David said. "Shinji here is really ticked off about the conditions of the survivor rooms, and he's saying that he wants to seek other shelter."

Isabela flashed her eyes around the room and saw the other eight survivors actually nodding in agreement. "You all want to leave?! But why?!"

"OH, YUU!"

The ten survivors all pointed down to the rear right survivor room. Though still wounded from the gunshot in her arm, Isabela picked herself up and walked down to the chamber.

Her jaw dropped to the floor.

"Pachamamachingador," she said.


	5. Leah Full of Grace

It had been such a difficult couple of days for Leah Stein. The bereaved ex-mother lay languishing in the far end security room, attempting to reflect upon the loss of her only child, her poor infant daughter. During her treacherous trek to the Security Room, perched on the back of that gentle giant photojournalist, Leah thought to herself, I should have done this with Grace...should have set her upon my back somehow, stolen some kind of sack from Sportrance or some other similar goods outlet and carried her on my back, like a papoose. It would have been better than the fate she received, and certainly did not deserve.

Leah gazed around in a daze, the word "Grace" repeating in her head ad infinitum. Everything she saw and heard became translated to her as Grace.

"I can't grasp why we're just standing around here, waiting for the helicopter when we could be escaping," Kindell Johnson muttered in a corner to Rich Atkins. "I just can't grasp why."

(I can't GRACE why we're just standing around here...I just can't GRACE why)

She had to get her mind off of her daughter, somehow. From her prostrate position on the security room floor she looked up at the others. She saw Josh Manning adjusting his glasses, staring out into space as if trying to find a solution to the zombie problem all on his own. She saw Gil Jimenez adjusting his belt, trying in vain to cover up wine stains that would never be effaced from his clothing. She saw two men talking. That older guy, Jeff, and the frightened one, Gordon. Hmm, she said to herself, that's funny. Jeff and Gordon. Jeff/Gordon. Like the NASCAR driver. Like the race car driver.

(JeffGordonRaceCar)

(GordonRace)

(GorRace)

(GRACE)

"GRAAAAACE!" Leah bellowed, abruptly standing up. All of the bickering and arguing in the four survivor rooms came to a decisive halt. She leered at Gordon, then gazed at him lovingly.

(He has a smooth, bald head on his shoulders...just like my baby...just like my Grace...)

(GRACE)

"My baby!" she shrieked, as she wrenched hold of Gordon's shoulders, then ran a hand along his hairless scalp, then did it again, and again and again.

It was all Gordon could do to try and shake her off. "WHAT are we doing here?!" he groaned as he attempted to wrest himself from Leah's clinging grip.

At last Leah was seized from behind by Barbara Patterson. The massive woman's meaty arms yanked Leah's own limbs from Gordon's petrified frame, and spun the ex-mother's body around to face her. Leah looked deep into a weathered, simian face that spoke volumes, along the lines of "I just spent several hours in the empty room of a hardware saloon, lady, waiting to be macheted by a Vietnam veteran. Don't test me."

As Leah continued to stare into Barbara's eyes, Otis burst in, knocking Natalie Meyer onto her prodigious derriere. "Jessie just wanted to inform you guys, she couldn't get through to DHS HQ, so we might not yet be out of the woods yet till 12:00pm tomorrow when Frank's chopper comes hopefully. The federal government...what a disGRACE."

Leah finally passed out.


	6. Wuthering Security Rooms

AIRDUCT ANECDOTES #1: WUTHERING SECURITY ROOMS

There was no possibility of taking a walk out onto the mall rooftops that day. It was a forbidding, foreboding time wherein all of my fellow men and women were engulfed by the stench of dead and a sense of dread. The clock in our security haven struck half past noon.

My liberation from the motion picture theatre, along with four other wayward souls sodden with dismay, brought a brief period of reprieve into my desolate life of solitude. Upon alighting in the security area and entering the musty, rectangular survivor room, Mr. Crabbe spoke to me. "We're safe now, Ray," he said. "Those raincoats can't gas or stab us here. Son of a bitch." Mr. Crabbe possessed the habit of ruefully muttering "son of a bitch" myriad times during our journey through Paradise Plaza.

I spent several hours speaking with survivors and maintaining my sanity, barely. Though I was surrounded by eleven others, including Mr. Crabbe as mentioned, my spirit felt forlorn, crying out for another with whom I could share my isolated existence.

Then, through the smudged yet somewhat crystalline pane of glass bordering my chamber, I saw her stride into view. A woman, nay, a paradigm of female perfection, clad in a mauve sweatshirt and vibrant blue denim jeans. The be-jeaned demigoddess was guided into a safety room that was across the corridor of the security area and, tragically, not my own.

Frank entered our room to ensure our safety once again, inevitably knocking Bill Brenton onto his corpulent posterior while opening the door. My room was sufficiently crowded with survivors such that we all were successively assaulted by the opening door at one point or another.

As Frank approached, I made a request, which I felt was simple in comparison to Ronald's request for food, or Floyd's request for wine, but much more critical. I requested the radiant woman's name.

"Simone," Frank replied. "Simone Ravendark."

Her name was Simone. Simone Ravendark. In contrast to her surname, her hair was as blonde as the summer sun, her skin as silky as the yogurt in Seon's supermarket. I was certain, however, that within her was a longing, an abyss of loneliness that was indeed raven dark in its utter blackness.

Despite my desperate need to converse and commune with her, however, I could not proceed into the hallway, could not cross that infinite divide between our respective survivor quarters. I could feel twenty-two eyes upon me, in my survivor's chamber, and knew that they would denounce me for my sentiments, should I dare take that first step.

I had never before encountered an emotional benefactress as I had in Simone Ravendark. She was not a pitiful spinster like Beth Shrake, nor was she a meretricious harlot like Cheryl Jones. She was "a woman in despair," as Otis had dubbed her, a woman in need of constant affection.

The instant I set my gaze upon her, I wished for her to become betrothed to me, and thenceforth change her name to Simone RAYvendark. In the years to come we could live on in harmony and sire a progeny of adorable, precocious future mall survivors. Ah, but would she in turn desire my beady-eyed countenance, my pencil-necked profile, my wishy-washy figure?

In my heart, I responded: yes.


	7. Leisure Park Quadruple Date

It could be safely posited that Janet was not in the best of moods. She was surrounded by droves of ghastly, bloodthirsty monsters. She was trapped on the back of a humvee with a deranged prison escapee as the driver. Worst of all, for some reason she couldn't get this one random, godawful song from Lifeseeker out of her head.

She and her friends, Kay, Kelly, and Lilly, didn't intend to be trapped at Willamette Park View Mall with three escaped ass clown convicts hooking up with them and a nation of zombies breathing down their backs. It was just supposed to be a nice little excursion, the four of them, best friends since their mothers were having them at the hospital. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this.

Janet gazed across Leisure Park and saw Kay in the back seat of the cherry convertible with that one guy, Sam was his name? Kay could be such a skank sometimes. Looking at her in the car, with Sam's arm around her shoulders as the vehicle was plowing through the park's reflecting pool, it kind of even looked as if she was enjoying it to some extent. But Janet still loved her like a sister.

Kelly was right in front of her, in the passenger seat of the humvee with Reginald driving. She was nice, Janet thought, but she could be a bit of a mooch sometimes. Janet couldn't believe that, under the circumstances, she was actually looting that one jewelry store in Al Fresca to get a couple of brooches!

And the way that Kay and Kelly dressed! The latter was very much "get back to the 80s," almost as if she walked off the set of Punky Brewster, with her frizzed hair and flashy, garish clothing. And speaking of clothing in terms of Kay, it was really more of a "lack thereof" matter; she was all thighs and midriff and slightly cheeky in the back. Janet thought it was to draw attention away from Kay's homely features.

_I might be the one named Janet,_ she thought, _but as far as I'm concerned, it's those two who have the wardrobe malfunction._

Then there was Lilly. God she loved Lilly; they must have been fraternal twins and it was just never discovered. Of the three, Janet was closest with her; they even worked in the same office and spent the most time together. Lilly was super smart, rivaling Janet's own intelligence, and was going to get the corner office soon for her contributions to the magazine that they both worked for. But at the same time, Janet felt for her and was fully aware of how lonely she could be. She knew Lilly was a bit jealous of her sister, who just married and became Dana Simms and no longer Dana Deacon. Someone would come around for her, in time; it was actually Janet herself who would more often serve as the seventh wheel, if there were ever an uneven number of eligibles who came around for the four girls.

Janet herself was content with her life, more or less, at least up until the last couple of days when the stuff hit the fan at the mall. But she wished that she could be the one who got the guy sometimes. It was those TVs on her face that kept many of those shallow bastards away. She couldn't understand it. She was the blonde! (Well, apart from Kay's shredded wheat hair). Wasn't she supposed to have all the fun? Wasn't she supposed to be the Star?

As Janet bumped about in her seat on the back of the humvee, she thought more about how they all reached this point. After they saw the first few monsters, they had tried to take cover in Al Fresca. But before long it became too dangerous, and they had to keep moving. They ran like banshees to the Food Court, where they stocked up on some grub and hid at Chris' Fine Foods. For some reason, the zombies did not really hound them there. Maybe they could wait it out till some kind of all-clear, if there ever would be one.

But then it was Kay who first caught sight of the humvee roaring through Leisure Park.

And then Kelly, "It's the army! It's the army! They've come to save us!"

"Come on, Janet; we're gonna get out of here finally," Lilly urged her, pulling her by the arm to get out from under a table.

Then they ran outside and saw that the men on the humvee were wearing a different kind of uniform than what they expected.

Regardless, however, the women were desperate, and believed the three sketchy jumpsuits when they said that they were going to beat out of there asap. They knew a way out through the maintenance tunnels, they lied. Just let them go and get a car they saw near the entrance to the tunnels and they would be right back, and the seven of them could make their escape.

When the men came back, it was Reginald driving the humvee, with Miguel commandeering the convertible and Sam in the rear. Kelly got in the jeep's passenger seat, while Kay jumped in the back of the car with Sam and Lilly sat with Miguel.

Janet got matched up with the humvee's heavy machine gun.

It was kind of funny, though; Janet knew where the underpass for the maintenance tunnels was, and knew that the jumpsuits knew, but for some reason all they were doing was circling around the Park again and again, running over zombies and doing doughnuts. She wasn't knowledgeable of the fact that the three men were escapees from the nearest prison, whom on a lark had taken a humvee they had swiped and jumped a ramp resting against the side of the mall's interior parking lot to get inside and into Leisure Park. The ramp was being used for some sort of special motorcycle daredevil event wherein several bikes would jump up and over into the park, to the thrill of several onlookers. Willamette just did not stop at anything to provide every species of entertainment for its shoppers.

So Janet was really kind of sort of in a funk at the moment.

Reginald pushed harder on the accelerator, sending the vehicle flying back towards the Paradise Plaza entrance. Janet looked toward Kelly to see if she was as freaked out as her, but she couldn't make out her face.

Reginald chortled as he espied a stocky young man near the door to Paradise. "Here you go, Janet! You can have _him_!"

The portly survivor did a double take as he saw the jeep careening towards him, and started for the entrance nearby.

"Uh-uh, no way, fatboy," Reginald said, driving straight towards him. "You gonna be under my grill in a God damn second. Though I don't know if the shocks could take the impact this time like they did from jumping the ramp…heh heh…"

Janet popped upward in her seat as the humvee lurched through a small dip in the ground. The vehicle was closing in on the hapless, heavyset man, and he gazed at the oncoming carriage of death like a deer in the headlights. A very fat deer in the headlights.

"Shoot the sideburns off that sucka, Janet!" Reginald barked. The humvee was twenty feet from its target.

"No!" Kelly shouted, diving at the wheel. The jeep swerved away from its intended mark at the last instant and coursed back across Leisure Park towards the enormous windows of Wonderland Plaza.

The heavy man looked up from arms crossed over his face. Some corpulent angel must have been watching over him. Collecting himself, he scampered back toward the entrance to Paradise Plaza. _That was close_, he thought. _I almost bought it that time. Whew…I should celebrate my near-death experience with a nice milkshake, or perhaps a sundae. Let's see, where can I find…hmm, Jill's Sandwiches. That should do._

When the humvee came to rest, near the underpass to the maintenance tunnel entrance, Reginald raised up and slammed Kelly in the chest with his right fist.

"Bitch, don't you f#ing cut in on my playtime like that," he snarled. "I'll rip your frizzy haired head right off if you…"

BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM

When the smoke cleared from the firing of the heavy machine gun rounds, Reginald and Kelly slowly lifted their heads from their knees. Reginald, in particular, found himself staring down the business end of the barrel of the artillery mounted behind him.

"DON'T YOU EVER…EVER! HIT OR THREATEN MY FRIEND AGAIN!" Janet screamed, her eyes the color of psychopath behind her glasses. "I'LL F#ING ANNIHILATE YOU!"

Reginald flinched, but then sneered at her. "You wouldn't," he said.

"Oh no?" Janet shot back, gritting her teeth at him and looking ready to start foaming. "You think I can't do it? You think I don't have it in me? Huh?! Well let me tell you something, friend: you're about to have a lot of things in you." She jostled the machine gun in its stand.

Reginald gave her a hard look through slits for eyes, though he knew she had him.

"NOOOOOO!"

Janet shot a glance in the direction of Kay's scream. Over the barrel of the machine gun, she could see that the occupants of the convertible were now out of the car and on the ground, with Sam shaking his bat in Kay's face and wrenching her hand behind her back, and Miguel holding a knife to Lilly's throat.

"You want to be the hero, you want to save your skank friends and shoot us?" Miguel started. "Then come on! Let's see if you can shoot your gun and hit me before I cut this bitch from ear to ear! Come on! Let's see who's faster, huh? Let's see who's faster!"

While the standoff was ensuing, Sam pressed his face close to Kay's. "You and me, we're gonna have a little fun, we are." He began to twist her wrist, causing her to whimper in agony. The fingers of his other hand lifted off the bat for a second, then began curling around it suggestively, one digit at a time, like a spider entwining its legs around a twig. "Maybe these could be my fingers around your throat," he jeered, pushing the bat up towards her face. "Or maybe these could be _your_ fingers around my…"

"COME ON!" Miguel again spat at Janet, pressing the knife further into Lilly's throat. "COME ON, YOU BITCH! LET'S SEE WHO'S FASTER! COME ON, LET'S SEE WHO'S F#ING FASTER! COME ON! LET'S SEE WHO'S F#ING FASTER!"

BLAM

A report sounded, and a bullet spanged against Miguel's knife, sending it flying from his hand.

It wasn't a heavy machine gun round, however, that was partially lodged in the mangled knife lying several meters away.

"GET AWAY FROM THOSE WOMEN! NOW!"

Everyone's heads shot over to look in the direction of the new voice. The possessor of that voice had just stepped out of the doorway to the Food Court and was bounding towards the seven survivors, knocking zombies over along the way with her massive girth alone.

His weapon lost, Miguel instantly regressed from raving to stammering.

"O-Officer! We-we didn't mean anything by this…we, were just going to escort these ladies out of here…"

"I SAID, STEP AWAY FROM THE WOMEN! OR I'LL PUT MY NEXT BULLET IN YOUR EYE SOCKET!"

"Officer, I…"

"SHUT YOUR PIE-HOLE!"

The three convicts backed away abruptly from the woman, their hands shooting innocently up into the air. They weren't so talky now.

Seconds later, the policewoman, an impossibly large lady leviathan, reached the group. She didn't hesitate for an instant, but rather snatched another weapon up into her hand and fired it at Miguel. What must have been 53,594 volts coursed through the convict's body, and a moment later he lay limp upon Leisure Park's green grass.

"Now," the officer started, glaring at the other two ex-inmates through steely gray sunglasses, "you two are going to pick him up, and get out of my sight, in thirty seconds. Or else I'll give you even worse than what he got." She motioned toward the unconscious Miguel.

Sam and Reginald readily complied, scooping up their fellow former prisoner and carrying him towards the humvee. They were so frazzled that they didn't even register that Janet was still in the back on the heavy machine gun.

Another bullet screamed up into the air. The officer thrust her pistol in their direction. "Did I say for you to take the vehicle with the military artillery, so you could blow all of us away as you're leaving? The convertible, NOW!"

It almost looked comical as the two convicts then started to hurriedly hustle Miguel in the other direction now, reaching the red car in seconds flat. They flopped the Hispanic man's body into the rear seats and jumped in the front. Without another instant's hesitation, they gunned the engine and floored it, speeding off back toward the maintenance tunnel entrance. They would have to come back for the humvee later.

The officer was satisfied. She then turned to Janet, who was still frozen on the back of the humvee in a mixture of hatred and fear. "Ma'am, please get down from the weapon and step away from the vehicle," she said.

Janet hesitated for an instant. The police officer just saved all of their asses, granted. But there was something ominous about this woman.

"Ma'am, please get down and step away from the vehicle," the policewoman repeated.

Thinking of all the horrid creatures around her, and wishing so desperately to be removed from this situation, Janet pushed aside her suspicious thoughts and cooperated, shakily standing up from her seat, and hopping down onto the grass.

The officer then turned to the three women on the ground. "Are you ladies allright?"

Lilly rubbed her throat lightly; it was a bit sore but she was unharmed. "Yes, officer, we're all okay."

"Come with me, then. I'm taking you all to a secure place." The policewoman started hulking back towards the Food Court entrance, beckoning with her right hand for the others to follow.

The four ladies didn't want to go it alone anymore. Breathing sighs of relief, they started to hurry after the woman who had saved them. They had no reason not to trust her; after all, she was an officer of the law.

As they all reached the Food Court entrance and started to cross the doorway's threshold, Kay faced the policewoman.

"Thank you for coming to our aid, officer. We really would have had our gooses cooked without you."

The officer smiled back at the young woman. "Just carrying out official police business, ma'am." A lewd wink was obscured by the cop's opaque shades.

Kay nodded, and continued through the Food Court door after her three friends, with Officer Jo Slade bringing up the rear. As the door swung shut behind them, the officer reached a hand to her belt, her fingers curling around a hanging baton, one digit at a time.


	8. Cooking Mindy Baker

_There's no way I'm letting that freak anywhere near me,_ Mindy thought as she looked back at Paul in the corner of their survivor chamber. Though there were ten other individuals amongst them, including her best friend Debbie Willett, she didn't feel any more comfortable knowing that that pyromaniac, with emphasis on the maniac, was within the vicinity. There could have been 53,594 tired, hungry survivors in that room, and she was sure that Paul would probably go through 53,592 of them to get to her.

Mindy was not a fan of the troubled teenager. She really resented him for the fact that he wasn't an adult like her, and thus could not take as much responsibility for his actions. She didn't buy the idea that, even after his near death experience at Casual Gals in Wonderland Plaza, he had now changed and that "his arson days were over."

And, looking over her shoulder for the nth time to assuage her insecurities and renew her sense of dread and disgust, she didn't like the way he was still fiddling with that lighter and those bottles.

Paul told Otis a few hours before that he really was a different person now, and that, even though he was still in possession of his incendiary implements, he was going to use them for good, as a "present" for Frank to augment his eclectic arsenal against the undead.

_If he really wanted to change, why didn't he dump out the contents of his bottles at Casual Gals and leave them by the empty fire extinguisher?_ the devil on Mindy's left shoulder hissed. _Paul's got a present, all right, but not for Frank…for YOU!_

_Stop it, Mindy,_ the angel on Mindy's right implored. _Look at him now. He's not quaking anymore like he was at the store, or doing that hyperventilating laugh of his. He __seems so harmless now, even pathetic. You need to settle down…for your own sake…and especially for the sake of your condition._

Since birth, Mindy had been suffering from a rare condition, akin to hypothermia, whereby her heart rate would increase, and she would start convulsing uncontrollably, should her body temperature drop to a certain degree. She had to stay away from anything that was remotely cold, or else she would begin to quiver profusely, and in an extreme situation, suffer severe heart palpitations and even die.

Various stressors did not help her physiological predicament. This latest thing at the Park View Mall, with assloads of undead emanating from all directions, was certainly not helping. And the fact that Mindy went without sleeping the last couple of days further compounded matters.

At about 4:40am this morning, she and Debbie were running through Wonderland to escape some of the monsters, and her friend was confronted by three of them. Thinking quickly, Debbie dove for a nearby fire extinguisher and fired at her attackers, warding them off…but she also inadvertently blasted Mindy in the process, as she was trying to get to her. Once they could break away from the creatures, Debbie guided Mindy to the nearest store they could find—Casual Gals—and feverishly searched the main area of the store, then the supplies closet, to find something, anything, that could reduce Mindy's resultant convulsive shivering. Upon discovering nothing, Debbie just embraced Mindy, desperately hoping to regulate her best friend's temperature with her own body heat.

It was at that moment that Paul Carson first found and cornered them.

Another grocery delivery, Frank thought as he pushed through the air vent again. To the average ordinary human being, it would be a challenge to bring a few shotguns, a couple of sniper rifles, a bottle containing a rare specimen of insect, a baseball bat, a katana, three books, two chainsaws, and half a supermarket through that miniscule duct. But there he was, whooshing through like a kid on a slip n'slide.

Frank looked like hell as he sprinted through the security room, and who could blame him? In addition to carrying out the perishables errand, he had to battle some crazed butcher in the basement of the market as well. He'd suffered a few cleaver slices to the vertebrae and jugular here and there…but, ah, it was nothing a thimbleful of coffee creamer couldn't fix.

One slight silver lining of that encounter, at least, was that Frank managed to get a bit of dairy from Larry Chiang's lair to satisfy whoever needed it.

"Here we go," "Frank started, handing out the various grocery items, sort of randomly given his time constraints. "Some yogurt for Yuu, some squash for Sophie, a pizza, head of lettuce, and gallon of orange juice for Ronald…and, ah, here we go, some milk for Mindy."

Famished like anyone else in the security area, and not fully mindful to detail due to her hunger, Mindy took the chilled milk from the frigid butcher's freezer and began to drink.

Tad had had it.

After almost being raped by that pansy amateur photographer's pet larva and barely surviving the experience, he was ready to whip the world's ass. Words couldn't capture how infuriated he was; he was so PO'd that he'd made Mark Quemada look like Gordon Stalworth. Tad was especially sick of these…human freaks among the zombies, who loomed over the monsters with their demented weaponry, deranged eyes, and disturbing smiles.

It really stuck in his craw that he couldn't pay back that jumpkicking jerkoff Kent Swanson for what he did to him. He had all this anger, and had to displace it somehow, had to find someone upon whom he could dispense his righteous indignation.

Tad tried taking a walk out into the monitor room, but getting a bit of space didn't restore his temper any. On the way back, however, he ran into Wayne Blackwell, who was also out of his room to stretch a bit and flex his love handles. Part of the small talk between them, of course, was this entire situation, and after they exchanged "what they were in for," as prisoners would ask one another, Wayne brought up in passing the whole incident regarding Paul.

Tad had now found the outlet for which he was searching.

He started to follow Wayne into his survivor room, determined to ask the arsonist to step outside. But a startled scream from within the room made him hesitate, and he retreated to his own chamber, biding his time.

The carton of milk, still almost full, sprayed Ross as it hit the floor, splashing over his bandages somewhat and mixing with the blood splayed upon them.

One of Mindy's two worst fears at the moment was coming to pass. Again.

"I don't want to DIE HERE!" was all she could manage to get out before she started shivering and convulsing, this time dropping straight to the floor. Ten of the other eleven in the room rushed to her. Well, Ross sort of inched towards her.

"SOMEONE DO SOMETHING!" Debbie shouted, frantically scoping out the room for anything that might help her friend. "She'll DIE if we don't help her!" The other survivors wanted to do something, but Mindy's condition was rare and they had no idea how to start. Jolie and Rachel looked at one another, then ran their hands through their hair, trying to think of a solution. Floyd stared at his wine bottle, uncertain as to what to do next.

Otis had heard the commotion and ran to their room's door. "I'll get help! I know just who to call!"

On the floor, Mindy could not stop her body's involuntary motion. It was as if she fell through the ice at a frozen lake, and was then assaulted by malevolent magic fingers underwater. This attack was far worse then anything she'd experienced in her thirty-four years. Driven by a subconscious urge, she turned her head spastically to the left to see the ground ahead of her. Through her frenzied fit she could see two black boots pounding the floor, moving forward. With infinite effort she shifted a bit and looked upward.

She found that the other of her two worst fears had visited her: Paul was coming straight toward her, with a lighter in one hand and a Molotov in the other.

"Frank! Frank! Mindy's in trouble!"

"Otis, I'm a bit…erm…occupied right now."

"Frank, she's dying. She's on the floor, shaking like crazy!"

"Otis…hang on a sec." Frank had to hang up a moment to plunge his chainsaw into a mob of monsters. A head or five lay suspended in the air for an instant before falling to the ground to join the originally connected body.

Ring Ring

"OTIS, WHAT?!"

"Frank, if you could bring something back, like maybe that first aid you got for Brad earlier, it might really help…"

Another creature grabbed Frank by the shoulders. It was somewhat difficult to carry on a conversation and combat the living dead simultaneously.

"I'll have to get back to you later…I'm surrounded by zombies and I'm running out of weaponry and WHY DO YOU ALWAYS CALL ME AT TIMES LIKE THIS CAN'T YOU JUST STOP CALLING ME GODDAMNIT!!!"

As Frank most understandably hung up on Otis, a female zombie fell to her knees and went for his unmentionables.

How rude, Otis thought on the other end.

"Ma-ma-maybe this mi-mi-might help."

Debbie couldn't believe her eyes. Paul held out both of his hands, for her to take his lighter and Molotov from them.

She'd had about enough of this. Of all of this: the monsters, the mall, the misfortunes they'd all been suffering. "DAMN YOU, GOD! WHAT DID WE EVER DO TO YOU?!" she cried.

Even though Paul was an atheist, and otherwise didn't know too much about God, he thought that was a bit odd of a thing to say, as people really couldn't "do" anything to God. But of course he knew Debbie was all kinds of upset at the moment.

Floyd placed a hand on Debbie's shoulder. Of the people in the room, the old timer best understood the considerable effects that a bottle could have on a person. "Please…give it a chance," he said. "It might be the only one she can get, now."

Debbie peered down at Mindy, throbbing on the floor. In another couple of minutes she would be dead. They really didn't have a choice. She let Paul come closer to Mindy. "Get a towel, so Mindy doesn't burn her hand holding the damn thing. I can't believe we're actually doing this."

As Tonya went off fetching the requested cloth, Paul looked down at Mindy, a genuinely concerned look on his face. "Do you th-th-think you can hold it, or should I hold it close by?" he asked her.

"I th-th-think I can do it," Mindy replied. Debbie thought for a second that Mindy might have been mocking Paul, because she knew how much she despised him. But the fact of the matter was that Mindy's altered speech pattern from her shivering matched Paul's stuttering.

Tonya came back with the towel fifteen seconds later. Paul hastily wrapped it around the bottle, then chucked the lighter a couple of times. An instant later, Mindy was gripping what was the potential instrument of her destruction mere hours ago.

Upon clasping it, however, she was filled with a welcome new warmth. Her body temperature began to rise. Her heart began to beat slower.

And the devil on her left shoulder returned.

_C'mon Mindy, throw it. Burn him. Burn him, Mindy! I said burn him! Burn him, Mindy. NOW! What are you waiting for? DO IT!_

She was improving by the second, and the temptation to throw the Molotov at Paul seemed overwhelming.

But then the angel on her right pleaded softly.

_All he worried about was you in the end. You know, I thought he was arsonist scum. But…in the end, all he cared about was your welfare. He wanted you to have this. _

Calming down, regaining her strength, Mindy stared at the bottle in her hand.

In her mind, Mindy thought that Paul was trying to take her life, though she did not understand that he was…confused. Now, she was certain that he was trying to save her life.

For her last remaining spasm before completely recovering, she shrugged her left shoulder, expelling the devil.

"Are-are-are you allright, Miss Baker?" Paul asked, his long, stringy hair partially matted in sweat against his face. Guardian angels were often depicted with long hair like that, Mindy thought.

In the peeling silence, the other ten occupants of the room watched intently, their faces stone.

Mindy now lay still on the ground.

But she was alive.

Her shivering and convulsing had ended, for good, it almost seemed.

And so had her passionate detestation of Paul. Her ardent hatred was over. "Thank you, honey," she said, a tender smile illuminating her face.

"I can't wait any longer," Tad said to himself, getting up from his cross-legged position on the floor and clenching his fists. Time was up.

He kicked open the door to Mindy's room. For once no one was knocked onto the floor, not even Susan.

"THAT'S IT! I'VE COME TO END THIS! HE HAS TO DIE!" Tad shrieked, motioning towards Paul. In an effort to back up his words, he tried a threatening pose, which looked as artificial and ineffective as one of Kent's victory poses for Frank out in Paradise Plaza.

Ten survivors looked at one another, again not knowing what the hell to do. Paul gazed at the intruder like a lamb looking at a lion about to pounce.

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

The statement came from the floor. With some effort, Mindy managed to rise from the ground. She looked not only recovered but replenished, all shivering from cold and fear having flown from her.

She took a step forward to face Tad. Had he burst in there wielding his invective moments before her latest attack, she would have said to him, "You'll have to take a number." But now, ten minutes after starting to die again, and cheating death for the umpteenth but most potent time, she stepped forward once more to address him, her eyes blazing as if the fire from Paul's Molotov was shining through them…

"You'll have to go through me first."


	9. Tales from the Duct

(Theme song plays)

OTIS (Featured with a welding torch, he is taking it to some unidentified sort of food): Well hello, kiddies. You're just in time for a nice "scare" meal. I hope you like your ghoul-lash "weld-done" hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee...

I'm just cooking up some scream-of-wheat in anticipation for a little trip I'm taking this Hack-tober. I'll be taking the chopper again...the only gap left to fill on the fright-tinerary is the question of whom to chop! Ahh-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...

Which reminds me of the ghastly go-getter in tonight's tale. It's a festering fable about a revolting rabblerouser who's stewing amongst a score of scared survivors in a zombie-infested shopping mall. Even the Special Horror-ces can't stop this rambunctious rebel's determination to ditch the mall...undead or alive. I call this "offal" offering..."Kindell's Kalamity."

"KINDELL'S KALAMITY"

KINDELL JOHNSON

MICHELLE FELTZ

RICH ATKINS

KAY NELSON

CASTING BY VICTORIA BURROWS

TALES FROM THE DUCT THEME BY DANNY ELFMAN

ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN "THE VENT OF HORROR"

PRODUCED BY CARLITO KEYES

DIRECTED BY ADAM MACINTYRE

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 11:00AM

There was no longer any trace of any of the bodies that were once in the storage area next to the monitor room.

Having come back into consciousness seven or eight minutes ago, Kindell was not aware of how that could possibly have happened. He had made sure that all of his bases were covered. He was thorough in his work and knew that no one could have suspected him of any misdoing. No one else wanted to go in that room anyway, as Russell Barnaby's lifeless, undeadless husk was cooped up in the vicinity.

So how did Rich's corpse vanish, then?

Kindell took a deep breath and thought for a second. So much meticulous measuring and planning…

He then realized that the constant catcalling and bickering in the various survivor rooms was ominously absent.

He was all alone.

Picking up a pistol lying near the computer in the monitor room, Kindell haughtily stalked through the doorway into the airduct area. He caught sight of a transceiver lying in the vent's opening, and snatched it up.

It was no big thing, he told himself. It might even be easier now.

Perhaps he could go through with his plans after all, even if they would need to be a bit modified.

Even after Frank had pacified him to some extent yesterday, and assured him again that the helicopter was coming, and that he could have the reins—the reign over the survivors—if it did not arrive then, Kindell was not fully satisfied. He still wanted to do things his way. As he told Frank, his way would work; even if some people bought it on the way out, that was a prospective liability they would have to accept.

Though Frank thought he had averted the mutiny, Kindell was still scheming. He would lead the survivors out of here, and perhaps some would eat it on the way out.

By the monsters, or by his own hand, if it came to it.

It was the price they would have to pay.

Five minutes later, Kindell hung up the transceiver. He had just finished notifying Frank that his needed insulin was discarded deep within the maintenance tunnels, somewhere in the concourse of zombies packed down there. If Frank could only go and fetch it for him…

Of course, Kindell wasn't remotely diabetic. He just did not want Frank to catch his scheduled flight out of Willamette.

He would show him who was in charge.

Kindell rested against the air vent for a spell, reflecting upon the individuals he met and murdered within the past several hours.

First there was Rich, Rich Atkins. He seemed like an allright guy at first. He backed up a lot of Kindell's proud pontifications about how they would all be doomed if they waited for the helicopter, about how waiting too long might seal their fates. He smiled in support and approval when Kindell proposed dashing for the doors and leaving via the land route.

But Rich wasn't on the same wavelength as Kindell was, regarding the wherewithal to actually carry out the plan. It turned out that he was all talk and sycophancy, just desperate to cling onto any rhetoric involving running from the hell of the mall. Kindell concluded that he was thus useless, and undeserving of the fruits of his ideas.

So when he saw Rich leisurely heading for the vent, intending to step out onto the safe rooftop near the elevator just to catch some fresh air, he decided to…knock the wind out of him. To be exact, while Rich was about a third of the way through the duct, Kindell inserted a flare—just like the kind that that machete wielding madman might have brandished—into the passage. Rich suffocated inside of the diminutive metal intestine within seconds.

With minimal effort, Kindell escorted the corpse to what was once Barnaby's little happy place. A quick distraction involving the helipad, wherein Kindell falsely informed Jessie, Brad, Isabela, and Otis that the monsters were threatening to come in from above them, removed that interference during the whole ordeal, allowing the man to operate unhindered.

Then Kindell thought of beautiful Kay, desirable Kay. He imagined her calling him by a pet name, returning his affections. Kinny and Kay, he thought lustfully, what a nice, righteous ring that has to it.

He approached her out on the rooftop, near the elevator, not long after smothering Rich. (Of course, he aired out the vent first, to remove any suspicion of the smoke still wafting from the flare.)

He still had a plan to get out of dodge, he'd said to her. He would round up the survivors and scram for the nearest vehicle, hours before that blasted helicopter. It would all work out without a hitch. And would she kindly join him?

Unfortunately, she gave him the wrong answer.

Count her out, she responded, preferring the helicopter as her hope to skip out of this shopper's hell.

Kindell said nothing in return, but merely looked down and gazed at her stomach, screwing his face into a scowl. Kay was used to salacious stares such as this, as she regularly exposed her midriff and scads of her skin otherwise and elicited quite a reaction from members of the opposite sex in the process. Male passersby were always engaging in eye-to-navel contact with her. She rolled her eyes.

So she was caught a bit off guard, then, when Kindell reached in and thoroughly disemboweled her.

This body, no longer quite as beautiful with its innards forcibly extracted, was much easier in its disposal. Kindell simply pumped the elevator button and threw it into the waiting mob of creatures.

Lastly, and most saliently, there was Michelle. Kay was gorgeous, but relatively speaking she was as sexy as Susan when it came to Michelle. The second that Kindell saw her, he knew that she was going to be the leading lady in his bold bid to abscond from the Park View Mall. As with Kay, he intertwined his name with her own. KINdell and MICHelle. 'Dell and 'Chelle. A perfect fit. He imagined the two of them, literally dancing their way out of this nightmare, one of her arms cradled at his chest and the other outstretched, her hand clasping his tightly in passion and adoration.

Unfortunately, as with the others whom he ended up cannily killing, Michelle was a bit reluctant to cooperate with the escapee-to-be. Kindell was not so much disappointed as devastated when she told him that she wanted nothing to do with his smooth schemes. What was worst about this rejection, though, was that, unlike with Rich, who appeared to respect his ideas but didn't have the guts to join him, or with Kay, who chose to pursue another route out (then _literally_ didn't have the guts to see it through)…Michelle's reasons were much more personal, and thus more penetrating.

"You're a selfish bastard, you know that?" she spat at him, and after he took such efforts to get her alone on the rooftop. "All these people have an easy way out of here, and you have to go and try to be the hero, a holier-than-thou harbinger of help. But you're nothing but a callous, crotchety control freak who's only looking to save himself…though you're too arrogant to admit it."

Kindell was less than pleased at this response, and replied by speaking with his hands…right around Michelle's throat. Within seconds, her grip on her neck was tighter than the bowtie that was bound to his own. She lay limp an instant later. Imbued with adrenalin from rage, Kindell hurled her corpse over the rooftop fence, into an ample audience of monsters below.

That was all he could recall from the past several hours, however. Oh, and he remembered a strange odor entering his nostrils moments later, before blacking out.

Kindell was a bit miffed that it was now much later in the morning than he was hoping, as he must have dozed off for a while. No matter, though; he would just have to improvise. And the thought regarding the transceiver and removing Frank from the equation, which Kindell only just now conceived, was a good start.

He wouldn't get much further in his arrangements, however.

He was distracted because he could swear he heard the sound of his name emanating from the vent nearby.

Kindell spun around. "H-hello?" He was sure a moment ago that he was alone. A bulky, banging sound reverberated through the passage for several seconds.

"Kindell…" it was a bit more than a whisper.

But it was enough.

Enough to make Kindell start, and stop his malevolent mulling.

"When I first came here, to the safe zone, I thought I was home free," the voice continued, an eerie echo from the bowels of the air duct. It sounded so familiar, but Kindell couldn't pinpoint its owner.

"One minute I was stuck in a room with two other suffering, struggling survivors without a clue as to what to do in their captivity…and the next minute I was in another room with ten such souls. I would say eleven, if I were to count you…but _nooooo_, you had ideas. You weren't _helpless_, like them. No, you wanted to _help us_, didn't you? Yeah, you just wanted to help _so very badly_."

"Rich…" Kindell started. It finally came to him, who it was that was speaking. But how could that be, when…

"It seemed as if I couldn't wait for twelve noon the next day…Frank had it all set up, the copter and everything. But thanks to you, I really _couldn't_ wait, could I?…I didn't have the opportunity to.

"Just find us a fast car and drive on out of here; that was your brilliant brainchild, wasn't it? Forget about the fact that all the roads out of here are blocked off, and that if it weren't the tons of those _things_ out there that would get us, it would be covert military ops that would do us in; are you on the same wavelength as me?

"Believe me, I know…driving out of here doesn't work. My twin brother…we were identical twins, like those teenage Tompkins sluts. We would even wear the same damn clothes sometimes. Anyway…Mitch gave it the old college try. Yep…Mitch Atkins would never back away from a challenge, especially if his life depended on it. He gunned the engine of his old jalopy and made it through a few streets…and so many corpses piled on his car that his engine gave out. Poor sap.

"When the old piece of scrap conked out on him for good, though, he still didn't quit. He climbed to the roof of his car and fought them, one by one, holding out for as long as he could, using a two-by-four of all things. Not all of us have the luxury of miniature chainsaws, I suppose…or a _shotgun_." This last word seemed directed right through Kindell.

"He lasted for a pretty decent length of time, given his predicament. I would have fought on if I were him, too. After all, a new vehicle was coming his way…though he couldn't even begin to get near it, unfortunately.

"Nope, the helicopter just soared on by…he waved his arms to get its attention, waved like nuts as if hoping to lift himself off the car to meet the chopper halfway. But the whirlybird never saw him. All of his waving drew his focus away from the monsters, of course, and a second later they pulled him off of his beloved ride, and…well, I suppose it was just a regular riot for those things, from there.

"So yes, Kindell, I _am_ afraid, as you suspect. I'm afraid that you're incredibly wrong about your ideas…and that you can't even begin to grasp your incompetence."

This last phrase was punctuated by a pause permeated with the faint sound of guttural moaning, from somewhere deep within the vent.

"Oh, and by the way, you know how I know everything about what happened to Mitch? He told me.

"Ten minutes ago."

Kindell didn't like the sound of this. At all. He backed, almost involuntarily, into the security area's monitor room. He felt that he needed to sit down a moment, to take this all in. As he did so, the door to the vent area slammed shut, and the sound of a lock fell into place.

"Kinny, oh, Kinny."

Another voice. Kay's. Issuing from the room where Dr. Barnaby was attempting to rest. Where the bodies rested…for a while.

"You know, I was studying linguistics at a university before this all happened," Kay's inflection sounded. "I liked to play with words. Huh, I did it all day. Yes, as you've likely imagined…I was pretty good with my tongue. I was going to make a living out of it someday.

"Now I don't know living at all."

Kindell stared into the darkness of the room where the bodies once were, unable to discern a single particle occupying the space as it was swallowed by an opaque void.

"Did you know your name is an anagram for "kill end?" As in, killing to achieve one's ends. You don't mind doing that, do you? Killing to reach the ends you set out for yourself? The ends that justify the means?"

He thought about walking towards Kay's voice, then stopped himself. He told himself it was discretion that made him pause.

But in reality it wasn't anything so collected or composed.

"Like taking someone who's afraid to go along with your plans, and suffocating him in an air duct?" Kay's voice pressed. "Like…wrenching someone's guts out, _Kinny,_ because she disagreed with you?" Her inflection sniffed a second, then paused. "Like… strangling someone…" it almost sounded as if she grunted for a moment, like a bull targeting a matador before charging, "because, heaven forbid, she called you a name?"

The brazen bowtied survivor leaned close enough to the hallway of the survivor room to view the staircase twenty-five feet away. Perhaps he could make it before something somewhat unsavory befell him.

"Like sending someone down to their death, in a concourse saturated with creatures starved for flesh, so that you could take his ride out of here?"

Static began to splash over one of the monitors in the room, and an image slowly came into focus through the snow. A small car, a sedan.

"Kinny, look at the screen. My fraternal twin sister, Fay, lived here in Willamette too. Look, there she is!"

It was a camera feed from September 19th, at about noon. It was footage showing a woman trying to fend off the monsters from her driver's seat, and instead being yanked out to be fed upon. Footage that was so unusually appalling that it made another person say to himself, about three days ago, "What in the world?"

"Those things pulled her out of there pretty fast, huh? Can you imagine how that must have felt? What must have been going through my sister's mind…other than rotted teeth…as those…creatures were devouring her?"

Kindell again looked toward the stairs to the roof.

"She's right here, Kinny; why don't you ask her?"

He launched himself out of the monitor room and ran the hell upstairs. The light permeating the entire security area flickered for an instant, then went black beneath him.

"Hey there, 'Dell.'"

Michelle.

Kindell was feeling all kinds of flavors of queasy right now, as he saw the woman's pastel slacks and carnation pullover almost forming a figure in the partial blackness. Everything about Michelle was wrong for some reason. How she smelled—an earthy stench replaced the redolent perfume she radiated before. Her voice—it sounded deeper, distorted, warped in some way. And her face…Kindell couldn't see it, as it was shaded by the darkness of the small alcove; she only appeared in the light from the neck down. But Kindell wondered if her face were altered as well.

"I don't understand…how can you still be breathing?" he barked at her obscured countenance.

"You're…African by descent…your ancestors having arrived here directly from Africa, isn't that right, Kindell?"

Kindell glared at the silhouette, trying desperately to see Michelle's face.

"You see, I'm of Caribbean heritage…Haitian to be exact. We know our zombies—damn good." She chuckled softly. "Those Santa Cabezans? Heh, they ain't got st on us."

Something inside Kindell told him he had to get the hell away from her. Now.

"Michelle…I don't understand…"

"Let me tell you a story…no, a situation. A very recent situation. There was a woman…on the rooftop of a warehouse in Willamette. She was surrounded by monsters and had no place to which she could flee.

"She tried running…but everywhere she stepped, there they were. She had a gun, and tried shooting the things; maybe it was her aim, or maybe they just didn't flinch in the face of firepower, who knows? She never found out what kept them coming.

"She then became so desperate that, hell, she threw the whole damn gun at them! Like that would do anything!

"Anyway, she then turned around…and beyond the lip of the roof, into open space, she saw a helicopter. It appeared to be her last chance. A chance to be saved. She waved her arms madly.

"But it was really no chance at all, she discovered, too late. The helicopter just kept flying onward through the town, leaving her behind to be eaten, or as it actually happened, to be tackled off of the roof to splat onto the concrete below."

Kindell set to breaking down the door behind him, the door which was strangely stuck for some reason. He didn't want to see what Michelle looked like anymore. He didn't want her anymore. He just nursed his original passion since he came here—getting the hell out, at any cost.

"The resolution to the story, or situation, such as it was, was that she didn't stay a stain on that concrete. No, she got up again…because, after all, she was bitten on the way down. She made her way to the Park View Mall, even though her limbs and joints and such were a bit out of sorts from her several story spill…and eventually, she made acquaintance with some pleasant gentlemen…all decked out in yellow.

"They were so wonderful, these gentlemen, showering her with gifts…a chant, a serenade to rejuvenate her body and undo all of her disabilities. Verses from a book on brainwashing that indeed cleansed her mind, and placed her into a special trance, making her even resemble a living person. A fragrance that could lull anyone into a peaceful sleep. You should know about that last one, Kindell; you were aroused from such a sleep, yourself, only moments ago.

"When this woman was found hours later in these gentlemen's home, there was no reason to suspect that she was anything but a fresh, young lady who never approached anywhere near death. But underneath the surface, she was still a stiff, a couple of days dead."

The busy sound of rotors began to work through the air, even though at this point it was barely audible. Kindell's eyes darted toward the partly open door to the roof. Michelle ignored the thundering noise.

"You see, Kindell, that woman wasn't my fraternal twin, or my identical twin, or my triplet, or my octuplet, or my 53,594-ooplet."

She finally stepped into the light so Kindell could see her face.

What was left of it.

"That was ME!"

Seeing the maggot-mangled countenance of his lady love, with rheumy blue eyes in place of the brown irises he adored, with her once lovely hair scraped from her scalp, made Kindell retch and fall backward, finally breaking the resistance of the rooftop portal.

But when Kindell tumbled out the door, the noontime daylight flooded in on the alcove and brought the horror of Michelle's appearance into full view.

"The last name of mine that you knew was my married name," she said. "My maiden name was Louverture. So I was once Michelle Louverture. And you might've thought Simone had a cool last name."

Kindell picked himself up and started running towards the helipad. Something was missing, he thought feverishly as he struggled to see the helicopter roaring through the air, the sunshine blinding his dilated vision. He then noticed that the secure fencing surrounding his area of the roofing had disappeared.

"Then my name was Feltz! Funny, huh? Cause right now, I can't feel a damn thing!"

The chopper then finally emerged into view. Unfortunately for him, however, it wasn't landing on the right roof.

"BUT YOU'RE GONNA FEEL A LOT OF THINGS, REAL SOON!"

Kindell gazed across the rooftops, watching over forty other survivors hurrying towards Ed DeLuca's helicopter as it settled onto the roof near the elevator and airduct. By some unlikely act of God, they all managed to fit into the vehicle, and the copter effortlessly shot back up into the air within a minute. The would-be survivor-savior gaped in awe and apprehension as the helicopter started to pull away from the mall.

A hand fell upon his shoulder.

Kindell whisked around and backed up several feet, dangerously close to the edge of the helipad roof. What once passed for Michelle served as the center of a small but tight semicircle of undead. Rich, Mitch, Kay, and Fay comprised the other parts of the cruel crescent, their bodies also ruined beyond recognition.

Instinctively, Kindell pulled out the pistol he found in the monitor room and fired at the former familiars, now maligned monsters. Though a staccato report emitted from the barrel of the gun, nothing in the way of effective ammunition issued from the weapon.

"Blanks, Kindell," Michelle's voice sounded again. "You didn't really think we would give you an easy way out, did you?"

The whoosh of the whirlybird still boomed behind him. Kindell turned around to wave, madly, at the craft, almost as if he were trying to lift himself off the roof with his arms.

The helicopter came no closer than where it hovered, about fifty feet from the rooftop.

Kindell could now feel the creatures' odor pervading through his nostrils all the stronger. He wheeled around once more, throwing his pistol out of desperation. Michelle briskly snatched it out of the air without missing a beat.

"For me? Oh, Dell, you shouldn't have."

Kindell could do no more than blink a couple of times, saturated with terror and paralyzed at the fatal futility of the situation. He turned around once more, his eyes glued to the chopper's blades, as if hypnotized by their motion. Michelle had taken her time, soaking it all in, but now was the time to finally reach him.

She spun him around, placing one decayed hand on his shoulder and outstretching his other arm, entwining her hand with his.

"You wanted me to be your leading lady," she said, her pus-filled pupils staring directly into his petrified gaze. "It would be an honor, so I accept…please, let me lead."

Kindell couldn't even let a scream escape as Michelle brought the weight of her body forward, sending both of them spiraling off of the rooftop.

Frank was out of breath. Damn it, he was only a half hour late for the chopper…and after all the trouble he went to, to get that insulin! For some random reason he remembered that the person who discovered that terrific treatment for diabetes had hit upon it through experimenting with the body fluids of dogs…so, fortunately for Frank and Kindell, finding Madonna near the Entrance Plaza solved all of their problems!

The photojournalist didn't have to plod through the tunnels again, that shrewd survivor would get his needed fix, and that damn mutt would finally get what she deserved. Everyone would win…except for Madonna, he supposed, but screw her.

"Where is everyone?" Frank pondered aloud. He loped around the rooftop for a few meters.

"Where is anyone?"

A loud, bright object caught his attention, and he hoofed over to it without hesitating. He shook his head, dazed, failing to understand.

It was a tattered, bloody bowtie.

OTIS: Poor Kindell. I guess it's true what they say: pride goeth before a fall…into a pack of rabid zombies, that is! At least he managed to…"take the plunge" with Michelle, hee hee hee hee hee…

As for Frank, you'll be happy to know he managed to escape the mall after all..."tanks" to the efforts of a creep commander who just "Brock" down when he met the photojournalist. You could say that, when faced with Frank's double-scariat, he wasn't too a-"Mason" Hahahahahahahahahaha…

You may also be wondering what happened to Jessie, the Department of Tombland Se-gore-ity agent who spent some time at the mall. (Cut to zombified Jessie, walking around brokenly) Now THAT'S what I call a "numb" blonde! AH-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, HA-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaaaaaaaa…

(Cue Tales from the Cr--, er, _Duct_ theme)


	10. The Craving of Crabbe

SEPTEMBER 18TH, 4:47PM

While Beth Shrake-Crabbe drank her overpriced soda in the dimly lit theater, Nathan drank in the features of the gorgeous blonde who just strolled in. _Who would walk into a place like this wearing something like that?_, the middle-aged man thought to himself, furtively eying the young woman's figure as she took a seat, alone, five rows ahead and six places to the left. The object of his desire was sheathed only so slightly in an elegant black dress, the kind one would more likely wear to an evening engagement than a mall matinee.

_And who's complaining?_ another thought of Nathan's answered. He allowed himself a deep, soulful sigh.

Inwardly, Nathan pined for the days where he could woo women, love women, with minimal obligations attached, without the fetters of marriage and mortgage and all of that other garbage. To be able to date again, he mused; a delivery from his slavery, a miracle shattering the manacles of matrimony. In his mind he teleported five seats up and five to the left, situating himself right next to the young woman, massaging her unclothed arm lightly and charming her.

He was abruptly yanked away from this reverie, however, by a sharp tapping on his own arm, which was produced by a shackle named Shrake.

"I still can't believe I let you talk me into going to see this," Beth squawked, shooting a look at Nathan from her weathered, prematurely aged face. "I bet this is going to be absolutely terrible. I can just tell; I knew we should have gone to see 'Dorry.' I told you for WEEKS I wanted to see 'Dorry.' Why you cajoled me into coming to see this one, I'll never know."

"Beth, we've gone to see what you've wanted to see for the last five times we've come to Colby's. Alright? It's only fair that, every once in a while, we actually go see something I want to see. And I want to see 'The Dealers.'"

"But the critics panned it, and look how few people are in the theater! There must be, like, a dozen people here, tops."

_Quality and not quantity, my "love,"_ Nathan thought, again casting a glance over to the luscious blonde gloriously positioned in his line of vision. _Quality and not quantity._

"God, Nathan, sometimes you're an embarrassment to me, you know that? And you wonder why I kept my maiden name when I married you, yeah, sometimes I hyphenate it with "—Crabbe," but it'll never be just "Crabbe" and you know why? It's because you're an embarrassment to me sometimes."

_You should go by "Shrake the Shrill, Shriveling Shrew,"_ Nathan replied in his mind, the phrase nearly escaping but instead running smack into his discretionarily pursed lips.

His peripherals prompted him to peep over to his ten o'clock again. The blonde beauty, blessed in black, arose and started to pump her way towards the theater's rear doors.

Suddenly Nathan had an overwhelming urge to excuse himself.

He waited about ten interminable seconds, to make it look less obvious. Then: "Look, Beth, you're already giving me indigestion, and the show hasn't even

started yet. And I haven't even eaten anything in hours. But I have to go to the bathroom, all the same."

"Alright. But just come back before five fifteen—otherwise you'll miss the opening credits, and I'm not telling you what you missed."

Nathan nodded as he plodded off, making sure that he wouldn't return till after the closing credits. Now where did that blonde flit off to?

He almost enthusiastically pounded open the doors to Theatre Four, ducking his head left and right to see where the woman went. No sign of her. Nathan turned left and headed forward, thinking either the concession stand or the restrooms…maybe one of the other theatres?...no, she was sitting there in front of him for a while…but maybe she found herself waiting in the wrong theatre…or maybe she just changed her mind…

He peeked around the corner to the main movie house hallway as soon as he reached it. Cathartically, the woman once again appeared in his range of sight, though she was getting smaller by the second. Nathan stepped up his pace just a little, so as not to make himself conspicuous, and trippingly trundled after her. Meters later he was closing the gap, from twenty theatergoers to ten to five to reach the girl. But just as he got as far as the theatre store, she rounded another corner, this time the one leading to the restrooms. Damn!

Feeling partly pathetically desperate but partly anxiously rejuvenated, Nathan took the last corner with a skip in his step. The hallway to the lavatories was otherwise empty—Thank God! –and the area was occupied only by his blonde goddess, still padding towards the ladies' room.

Then God really came through for Nathan. A small object fell out of the woman's purse and flopped onto the ground.

Nathan almost dove for the item as the woman started to hunch down to retrieve it. "Oh, allow me, miss," he said obsequiously, snatching it up from the ground and handing it to her.

"Oh, thank you, sir," she replied, flashing him a lively smile.

Admiring her from the back was one thing, but taking in the full effect of her countenance was almost too much for the jaded, quasi-wizened Nathan. And he couldn't even begin to let his peripherals plunge below her neckline. He let out a nervous laugh in spite of himself.

"Q-Quite a day to go to the movies, huh ma'am?"

"I'll say. The way it's coming down outside, you'd think God was having the day of reckoning."

"Yeah." This seemed like a pleasant start! Nathan never thought he would actually engage her in conversation. "Do you know if it might rain on into the evening?"

"I don't know, but the way it's been, I wouldn't be surprised."

Nathan grinned back, then blanked out. He had to come up with something. He glanced at her smooth hands.

"Well, that's a nice necklace," he said, gesturing toward the thing he picked up for the woman moments ago. "Where did you get it?"

"Oh, just from some religious function." She clasped the object, an old, corroded pendant, tightly in her palm. "It means a lot to me, so thank you so much for helping me keep it from getting…dirty." Her right eye not so much winked as twinkled, and Nathan spontaneously combusted within.

"Y-y-you know, I'm pretty religious myself, uh…" he extended his hand openly, reaching out for a name.

"Cheryl," she replied. "Cheryl, ah, Jones, yes."

"Cheryl," Nathan parroted. A name! Such advances in his social infrastructure as of late. "Yeah, I go to the Christian non-denominational every weekend for worship."

Really, he did…back in the Paleolithic, just before he met Beth.

But how he would love to worship this Venus, this Helen, this…Cheryl-patra before him…if given the opportunity.

"Is that right," she returned, her lower lip settling forward, invitingly. "I just love a man who's into his faith."

"Me too. I mean, I just love a wom…well, I mean…"

"Perhaps we could get together sometime to discuss the tenets of your faith, umm…" she pointed a slender finger his way.

"Nathan!" he exclaimed, blurting out such that Beth might hear him flirting from across the complex.

"Nathan. I would just love to, ah, go into it all some more with you."

"Yes; y-yes, that would be nice."

"This is my number," she said, whipping a pen and post-it out of her purse, and writing digits against the wall. Nathan admired the alabaster immaculateness of her arms, her neck, and yes, her breasts as she did so.

It must have been at least five minutes since he excused himself from his literally old lady. If Beth saw him like this, she would quintuple lariat him.

"Well, uhh, Ch-Cheryl," he stammered, peeking at the number quickly: 555-3594. "Why don't I call you in the next couple of days, a-and we can take this conversation from there."

"Sounds great. I can't…wait. Nathan." Her tongue unfurled against and past her front teeth with this last word. Nathan betrayed himself with an unmanly blush.

Cheryl smiled again and stepped into the ladies' room.

The middle-aged working stiff couldn't wait till he and Beth were out of Movieland. At the first opportunity he'd get to sneak out of Beth's predatory gaze, he would rush to whatever, a phone booth, a cellular, a mall personnel's transceiver, anything, to make that call.

Rather deliriously, Nathan wended back from the bathrooms towards the concession stand. A drink would be good right about now, actually, he thought, perhaps to pour over my head. Beth would probably empty an acid round over his head right now.

As he approached the concessions area, still somewhat in a trance, he almost inadvertently bodychecked a young man wearing a yellow button-down shirt. "E-excuse me," he said, and turned…only to almost run into another yellow-shirted youngster.

Nathan's rose-colored hazy gaze had suddenly gone gold. There must have been thirty of these yellow fellows, all in his way. And all in line for refreshments. Just his luck.

Fortunately, a silver-haired man wearing a gray sweater waved them all across, and waved Nathan forward so he could get through the small mob. "Thanks," Nathan said. The man simply nodded reverently.

The yellow shirts all must have been with the elderly man. Some kind of uniform; actually, wait, that's right. Nathan saw these guys before; they were just from the youth group at his nondenominational, and the one in the gray sweater must be the group leader. Just a nice group movie night, or day, as it were.

Nathan was yet still ecstatically out of it, so he started babbling to the man near him. "Ah, my mouth is so hot…I mean dry, and I could really use a good soda, or a juice or a water, or on second thought you know, maybe I might be hungry, and so I might just instead get some Goobers, or some Sweettarts, or some Twizzlers."

"Those who reject libation," the man replied haltingly, an obtuse look in his eyes, "embrace licorice!"

This answer was weird enough to at least partially snap Nathan out of his infatuated state. He looked at the man for a second, and noticed what he thought was a weapon underneath his arm. "Wha…" he started, pointing.

"Behold," he replied, as he gave three hundred dollars to the concession stand attendant in exchange for thirty-one icees and as many bags of popcorn, the contents of which matched the youth groups' tops. "A novelty blaster in our midst."

The man raised his hand to present one of the fake mega busters sold across the way at the theatre store. He then fired it point blank at Nathan's chest, pelting him with a barrage of harmless, spongy rubber pellets. Nathan looked down, then up again and laughed a little. The other man's expression, however, was one of dejection and disappointment, as if he really wanted the weapon to emit concussive energy.

He motioned for the group to collect their concessions and start over towards Theatre Four.

"Now _I_ shall return my fakey gun…to the lousy urchin that has pawned it." He then walked off.

Blinking, Nathan began to attempt to make some sense of what just happened. After fifteen seconds and failing, he slid back into his Cheryl-ushered stupor.

_Cheryl Crabbe,_ he imagined. _What a nice ring that has to it._ It rolled right off the tongue. He thought of Cheryl's tongue, hazily dreaming of the way she just mouthed "Nathan."

By free association, he tried another one.

_Cheryl Shrake. Wait a minute; that has an even better ring to it!_ he admitted to himself. _That's not fair._

In the ladies' bathroom at Colby's Movieland, some things were as they seemed, and some weren't. As far as the facilities mirror was concerned, for example, what you saw was what you got. It didn't function, say, as an interdimensional portal between two diametrically opposing sections of the shopping mall.

As for the figure in the mirror, however, that was another story.

The voluptuous woman staring into it, once again alone, would never take the last name "Crabbe," as the man who just helped her had hoped, or the name "Shrake," as he ludicrously feared.

But neither would she remain "Jones."

At some point, she would drop that alias and revert to her original surname. Once this operation was complete.

_Where's Douglas?_, she wondered as she focused her gaze to the cell phone in her purse. _Why hasn't he called yet?_

Cheryl looked down at the rather rusted pendant in her hand. _I can't believe, of all things, I drop this._

More than mere jewelry, the piece once represented a gateway for a god to enter upon the Earth. Cheryl barely kept this from happening, though her motivation was more of revenge for her father than goodwill for humanity.

She was told that she had to meet her contact at the movie theater. Douglas said he would be roughly his age, with a real soup strainer of a mustache. The detective advised her not to talk with the contact about their mission, but rather make some other kind of conversation, anything. Even something as ridiculous as flirting, if necessary. Those religious fanatics could be anywhere.

And indeed they were everywhere around the nation, in various sects, in various cults. Once Cheryl and Douglas had stopped "God" several years back, they took it upon themselves to find other groups capable of summoning such "gods" and prevent another possible day of reckoning. The same source that informed a funky-faced journalist about a possible riot in Willamette, had also clued the two cultbusters in on another zealous sect in the small town.

After her first experience, Cheryl looted the treasury of the church in which she found the pendant, in which she destroyed "God." With the hoard of money they found (tithing from terrified parishioners, apparently), she and the old man altered their appearances through plastic surgery, so that it might be a bit more difficult for surviving fanatics of past groups to locate them. They had enough funds to do this about every other mission.

This time around, Douglas made himself look twenty years younger, with midnight-hued hair and matching beard. Cheryl, in turn, made herself look about five to ten years older, but given the fact that she had just finished the teenage era, this transformed her into a stunning siren in her late twenties. She played the part to the hilt as well, vamping and coming on to various men, perhaps overdoing it a bit on occasion; it was such a contrast to her volatile, rebellious teenage self. She kept the blonde to some extent, but her original black roots also showed through the scalp.

As with Mike and Reggie from the Phantasm series (not to be confused with

Convicts Miguel and Reginald), the two were nomadic, always on the run in Douglas' junker car. They had managed to doublehandedly put down about four other insane religious groups between their first outing and now. They could get little additional help because they could trust almost no one; no one else would believe their stories anyway.

Although there were some individuals whom Douglas knew from earlier in his career, who owed him a favor or two. People who knew the lay of the land of certain towns, and who could serve as useful contacts for their various missions. He knew a good guy in Colorado that could help Cheryl, but he didn't tell her his full name. The two lightened things up between one another from time to time, and as a little game between themselves, Douglas revealed only the first letter of the contact's first name: N.

Not a hair out of place, she thought as she checked her curls, then started off again towards Theatre Four. Douglas said her contact bought a ticket to see "The Dealers"; she still had about another five to ten to look for him before the show started. At least she had met one man starting with "N" with a mustache so far; it was probably Nathan anyway, but Cheryl decided to scope the theater for other mustachioed mystery men just in case.

Oh, and she couldn't forget: there was one other small detail for which she had to be careful.

She knew Uncle Brock lived in Colorado, and would probably be looking for her.

While Cheryl's father was gentle and kind, his brother Brock was vicious and cruel. After Harry died, (or, rather, was murdered by that unspeakable ancient whore), Brock swore he would take care of her; after all, he was her godfather. But while her dad was a writer with the soul of a poet, her uncle was a soldier with the soul of a genocider.

Especially after her uncle boasted to her about some operation in Latin America, the outcome of which made the My Lai Massacre look like a day at Lakeside, she knew she had to stay away from him at all costs. Even the fanatics didn't seem as bad as him in comparison.

Since his home base was the Centennial State, and since there was wind of a supposed riot in Willamette, chances were that he might likely be part of the military personnel sent to clean things up.

So she had to keep tabs on that, too. She had a lot on her mind, of late.

Cheryl came back to her original seat in Theatre Four and relaxed. She craned her head around a bit, looking for other mustaches. Nothing yet. This "Nathan" must be the one. Huh, he even has a plant with him, posing as his wife, she thought, looking over at the couple. And they're even pretending to argue. How thorough.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Cheryl started, dashing her head around to view the rear doors. Unearthly sounds were issuing from what felt like one or two hundred feet away. Everyone in Theater Four looked around uncertainly, prone to panic.

Then the rear doors launched open.

"All remain calm!" boomed a voice. It was the man in the gray sweater, from the concession stand. He was stalking down the center aisle of the theater, accompanied by the thirty or so fellows in yellow. Cheryl dimly registered the sunshine sheen of the fellows' clothing out of the corner of her eye as she was coming back from the bathroom. They were all packed into the theater store at that moment.

Indescribable screams tore through the air, though buffered by the theater walls.

The man stood at the front and center of the giant room, the thirty behind him, and raised his hands. "For your salvat-…I mean, for your safety, all remain calm," the man continued, an intense glint in his eyes. "My friends and I, as you are all aware," he motioned to those behind him, "have served as volunteer paramedics in the past, and you well know how I have assisted this community before that as well."

Unbeknownst to Cheryl, the old man was known to be a darn good fire marshal in Willamette, for about thirty years. This was all, of course, before he…found religion. So there was no reason not to trust him. The community of which he spoke was tightly-knit, and they were all familiar with how much of a life saver he had been to Willamettans.

But taking a good, long gander at the crowd behind him, Cheryl had reason to be chary. The fellows behind the man were wearing yellow, but she could have sworn that they just had button-downs on before, and the shirts slightly differed amongst one another in fabric and shade. Now they were wearing raincoats—granted, it was raining outside, and pretty hard, as she and Nathan mentioned—but they were all wearing identical slickers. Almost as if they all got them from the same store, or the same house.

Or the same compound.

More bloodcurdling yelling from afar, growing louder and more melodramatic by the second. Hey, this _was_ a movie theater.

"Come follow us, and we shall deliver you from the perdition in Paradise Plaza beyond." The man beckoned the crowd with outstretched arms, encouraging them to come and be absorbed in his amber-overcoated mob.

Douglas told her that there would be cult activity somewhere in the vicinity. And this group, though seemingly benign, fit several frames of what she was looking for.

And that last statement the old man uttered didn't sit well with her. Volunteer paramedics rescue townspeople, they don't "deliver" them.

Cheryl "Jones" (nee Mason, or, as Douglas playfully called her in her new sexpot form, "Marilyn Mason") assessed what was before her, and what was in common with all she had experienced during her first case:

A mall turned into a murderous nightmare.

A group of apparent religious kooks, bandying around biblical jargon.

And a sinister circular insignia, stained in red…this time on the door to Cheryl's left; she could swear the symbol was not there a second ago.

_Willamette's no Silent Hill,_ Cheryl thought, as she considered her next move, _but it's still pretty damn unsettling._


	11. A Mason Affair

SEPTEMBER 21st, 11:00PM

Nestled within the pendant dangling between Cheryl's breasts was a queen, suffocating slightly, yet still alive. The ancient keepsake once held the embryo for a god, so why shouldn't it be able to house a more mundane, if still integral, lifeform? As the Special Forces burst into the security area, eager to snatch up and shut up survivors, Cheryl clutched at the pendant with her right hand, waiting for the right moment.

The soldiers kicked down the door to her chamber abruptly, with one grasping Sophie by the back of her hair and pulling her out roughly. Another grabbed Burt by the scruff of his flannel shirt's lapels and tugged, sending the incapable brawler sprawling towards the exit. A few more hapless civilian souls were then unceremoniously escorted out, Heather and Pamela whining in stereo as they were coerced along. Then the guards set their sights toward the shapely blonde.

"All right, all right, I'm coming quietly," she said, her hands up in surrender. The drones gave her her space, partly out of respect and admiration for such a stunning woman. They figured they might have their way with her later, in any case.

But what they didn't know was that Cheryl had been conserving her energy all this time, still playing up the helpless whorish harlot bit, even refusing a weapon from Frank when he got her out of that dingy closet at Colby's. She insisted that he hold her hand instead.

Now, though, it was time for her to transition from feeble, feckless damsel to formidable, fighting dominatrix.

Cheryl allowed the soldiers to push her towards the monitor room, where the survivors from her room and the room across the way were being herded. "Get moving, gorgeous," a guard nearby muttered, prodding her with the barrel of his machine gun.

She glided her fingers across her chest as she turned around to face him. "Yeah yeah, just…let me adjust this a second…" Cheryl's thumbs traveled down the pristine porcelain of her bosoms' skin for an instant, to indulge her tormentor for just long enough. Then her hands locked down hard on the pendant, breaking the chain's clasp at the back of her neck. Cheryl opened the item as it jumped into her forefingers, then thrust it at the floor.

A magnificent green glow sprung from the discarded item as the queen shot out from its minuscule prison. The verdant haze engulfed the monitor area, momentarily blinding everyone, soldier and survivor alike.

Except for Cheryl.

Dashing down to the floor, she snatched up the pendant and took off for the vent. "RUN! RUN!" she shouted to the former cellmates nearest her as she reached the yellow door to the duct area. Of course, the survivors nearest her were Bill and Ronald, who possessed neither her spirited brass nor her supple body, so they were unable to follow suit.

Cheryl dove through the open vent, a volley of bullets sparking all around the opening as she did so. She emerged through the other side five seconds later, the bright daylight flooding her face as she stepped out of the elongated tube.

She wasted no time, but hopped down from the ledge which 48 survivors had heretofore scrambled upon and ran towards a nearby soccer ball. As she expected, a couple members of the Forces immediately popped out of the vent behind her. Cheryl leveled the ball at them and hurled with all her might.

She was not surprised as the drones blew the checkered sphere out of the air with ease, the ball pathetically deflating as it sunk to the concrete. The sultry survivor was glad, though, that they took her bait. By the time the soldiers turned their guns toward her, Cheryl had dived toward the steel rack nearby and hefted it, and was now bringing the giant fixture straight towards them.

They fired their weapons at her, but the rack deflected every bullet, even though the spaces between the shelves were about a foot wide. With a mighty, somewhat unwomanly grunt, Cheryl heaved the gray gargantuan and pitched it forward, sending the rack tumbling onto the guards still firing from near the vent opening. With the Special Forces before her unconscious, and the duct effectively blocked by the massive shelving, Cheryl made a break for the door to the warehouse area.

Without a moment's hesitation, she shot down the opening corridor and hopped down the small ladder, her heels clacking onto the first of a few partitions dividing the warehouse. Cheryl bounced across the tops of the dividers with ease, and frowned slightly upon hearing more soldiers hoofing her way from the door to Paradise Plaza. Still atop the last partition, she grabbed a nearby mannequin, its figure failing to begin to approach her own in terms of anatomical flawlessness.

She remained perched atop the ledge for a moment longer, waiting. When the first Special drone stepped into view, Cheryl let fly with the mannequin, the plastic person almost football tackling the soldier as it descended upon him. The winsome vixen jumped down, picking up a stray television in her way.

Another Forces fool soon stood before her, as expected, an instant later. Before he could fire his weapon, Cheryl lifted the TV slightly and swung with all her strength, connecting with her enemy's chest. Unfortunately, the soldier did not go down as she had hoped, but rather staggered, then straightened as if unfazed.

Cheryl refused to give up, however. Spotting the cardboard conveyance in which the television was packaged, she lunged forward. The box met with the drone's face several times, sending him into an unconscious oblivion. Cheryl shook her head as she raced toward the door to Paradise, unable to understand why a piece of cardboard had succeeded where pounds of cathode had failed.

She cupped her hands to her mouth involuntarily as she slammed open the door to the Plaza. The stench of the deceased and the re-deceased was omnipresent. She couldn't believe that the area was now overpopulated with these…"men" and not the monsters. Cheryl honestly thought more highly of the latter; after all, they didn't attack their own species.

The lady in black sped towards the blue overhangs to her right. She remembered watching Frank grab some supplies from them, and hearing him mention that a submachine gun was perched atop one in particular. Of all firearms available, Cheryl was most comfortable with a submachine gun; it had come through in myriad pinches while she was in the course of her quest against "God" several years before.

Cheryl then realized that, in order to reach the blue ledges, she would have to jump from the staircase landing a bit further along. As she started toward that area, a solider suddenly stepped out from Kids' Choice Clothing and crossed her right cheek with the butt of his weapon. Cheryl rolled forward with the impact, and in her mind all of the moves she had watched Frank perform, right here in Paradise Plaza, had instantly clicked.

Leaping to her feet, Cheryl took a step forward and swiftly shot out a roundhouse kick, knocking the machine gun out of the guard's hands. Grabbing her adversary by the throat, she then escorted him right beneath the closest blue ledge and executed a shoulder throw skyward. The helpless soldier flew up and landed atop the small protrusion, jostling some of the items there as Cheryl had hoped. _Good,_ she thought a second later, as she spied a couple of objects falling from the ledge. _Something's coming down. Please make it the SMG…_

To her dismay, what fell from the azure outcropping instead were a stuffed bear and an orange juice. Cheryl could feel another soldier breathing down her naked back.

She instantly spun around and, as he grabbed her by her dress straps, performed a kick back, sending him shooting across the plaza grounds. She then picked up a potted plant and hurled it at her attacker, whose face was exposed as his headgear had fallen from him midflight. As she was bit winded from all the action, however, her aim had suffered, and the sizeable tub of flowers missed the man by a foot, shattering harmlessly against the wall.

Undaunted, Cheryl ran to the remains of the plant arrangement and seized a few flower stems. With a hearty shove she plunged the roots of the plant into the soldier's maw, causing him to choke frantically.

The haughty hussy then hustled across the way to Shoekin's, anticipating the next assault. Sure enough, yet another Special goon appeared, and she met the leveling of his automatic weapon with a quick toss of a clearance sale easel which was at her feet an instant before. The easel embedded itself between her assailant's legs, sending him straight down.

As the drone looked up at the ceiling lighting, he noticed his beautiful opponent in his peripherals, approaching with an orange juice. As he returned to an erect position, he accepted her gracious offering.

"You are so kind," said the ruthless, homicidal governmental assassin, dropping his gun to the ground as he took the plastic bottle.

While the man raised the container to his lips, Cheryl unhesitatingly performed a face crusher, delivering him to the floor once again—but facing the other way.

She spent a second too long gazing at the floor, satisfied with her work thus far. A hail of bullets from another guard snapped her out of her second-long spell, and she jumped away just in time before being splattered against the nearest window dressing.

More bullets followed Cheryl as she sprinted away from the soldier, a barrage tearing the head from the stuffed bear nearby. An idea bloomed into the blonde's mind. She ducked down low, near the lip of the nearest fountain.

A bit perplexed, the soldier continued to fire, until his clip emptied and he had to reload. _Now_, Cheryl thought. She lifted the bear's decapitated torso and rolled it straight at the guard, bowling him over unceremoniously. As with the other drone, with the deflowered pot, the man's visor slipped from his head as he fell over.

Cheryl wasted no time, but grabbed the toy bear's head from the slippery floor and paced toward her opponent. Shaking the stuffing out of the ersatz animal's skull, she placed the head across the soldier's eyes and nose, snuffing out his vision and nasal airway for an instant. Grasping the man's body by the arm and leg, Cheryl then executed a giant swing, sending the soldier careening through the air and into the fountain a few feet away.

Sensing too many more Special people in the immediate area, Cheryl scurried towards Entrance Plaza, praying that she would have better luck there. To her surprise, any soldiers who were pursuing her had ceased their chase once she reached the entrance to Entrance, slowly backpedaling in unison and speaking into small handsets. For a second she stood there, wondering why they failed to follow her.

Then she smelled the faintest hint of napalm, and she knew.

The plaza looming before Cheryl was seemingly vacant, devoid of all life and un-life. Almost as if cadet and creature had arrived at a fatal stalemate here, with no survivors.

The odor Cheryl sensed a second ago wafted through her nostrils once more, this time more pungent. It seemed to grow even stronger as she bounded up the stopped escalator, taking the steps in twos.

As the meretricious maiden reached Women's Lib, halfway across the Entrance Plaza's second floor, the smell grew even stronger. And she could swear she could perceive the slightest sound of chewing.

She reached the other end of the floor, and took a place in the center of the walkway between Wallington's and Robsaka Digital. She looked out to the midnight sky, very sublime in contrast to the mix of mesh and flesh all around her.

She didn't even turn from the sight, but merely spoke, as if to address that pretty sky.

"I can feel your eyes on me…Uncle Brock."

He emerged from the shadows, chewing his napalm-flavored bubble gum, as she knew him to do infinite times past. The stench of it could carry for miles, for some reason.

Brock also held a bazooka in both hands.

"I knew I'd probably find you here, Cheryl," he said. "What with all your…crusades against cults and what not, it would only be a matter of time before you found out about True Eye."

"I wouldn't have been surprised if I found that you led the sect yourself, you fanatic freak," she shot back, her sultriness receding and the testiness of someone once known as Heather Morris returning.

"Huh. Always the touchy one, weren't you. You and I, we've never been on the best of terms…"

"And I don't plan on trying to fix that now." Cheryl glared at him, a steely look in his eye.

As he continued to chew his gum, like the most irresistible cud to a cow, Brock lifted the bazooka in his hands a bit, making the tip of the inserted rocket go from pointing at the ground to aiming at the comely woman's feet.

"Cheryl, I don't really have time for this little…family reunion right now, either. My men and I, we have to contain a situation here, a particular episode…how would you call it…"

"An incident," Cheryl finished for him. "Yeah, I know. You're all about those."

Brock shook his head. Then his ears perked up as he began to hear the tinny sound of tiny rotors in the distance.

Cheryl turned her head to see what was coming. It was a weird, tripod-looking thing suspended in the air by pitiful looking propellers. What was the name of that again…she thought for a second.

Oh, that's right, it's an autogyro, she remembered.

As the craft drew closer, she recognized the vehicle's pilot.

It was Douglas. At last.

This was the best he could do?

Brock pivoted to face the incoming airborne mechanism, turning away from his fierce niece. "Man has imagination," he said, marveling at the diminutive vessel floating toward them. "But it was a mistake to slip past the National Guard to get here…and then to _try_ to slip past the Special Forces…and me." He peered into a scope alongside the rocket tube, lining up a shot for the autogyro.

"EEEEERRRRRRRRRRR…"

The commander turned back toward the chic chick in the cocktail dress just in time to see…

"EEEEAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHH!"

…her right cross come into crushing contact with his right cheek, seemingly in slow motion, forcibly ejecting the napalm gum from his mouth and sending it sticking against a pillar close by.

Stunned for a second, Brock did not fight back as Cheryl then performed what appeared to be a disembowel maneuver, though the action instead wrested the weapon from the soldier's hands and did not affect his intestines any.

She tossed the bazooka over the railing as Brock regained his wits, and the two cocked fists face to face, Mason to Mason, measuring one another. Specifically, Cheryl measured Brock's stony features, while Brock measured Cheryl's measurements:

53,594-24-36.

Brock opened with an awkward haymaker, which Cheryl easily ducked, responding with a somersault kick which Brock blocked. He then attacked with a vicious left hook which found purchase across his niece's nose. Small droplets of blood spattered on the landscape of her face, to join the tacky mole she requested prior to her latest surgery.

Brock then reared back, and bellowed as he charged. Cheryl barely sidestepped in time, but evaded his attack nonetheless. She was ready for him the next time, and when he renewed his rush in the opposite direction, the vivacious vamp leapt away, executing a wall kick that connected as Brock reached the other end of the walkway.

The pumps she sported weren't ideal for scrapping, however, and she came down on the side of her left foot when she landed, spraining her ankle.

As Cheryl lay on the walkway, writhing in agony, Brock leisurely stepped forward to boast. He clutched his sides in pride and not pain. "Before I finish taking care of you, baby doll, there's something you should be aware of. Something about a certain Mr. Mason—and I'm not talking not me.

"You always thought it was that zealot witch who did your dad in…heh heh heh…" He stood directly over her; she cringed at his feet, coughing and aching all over. "She might have told you so, too…or let on to that effect.

"Yeah, I left Harry's apartment…your home…about twenty minutes before those religious extremists showed up. They were looking to catch him unawares, but the fact was that he'd already been neutralized, about, say…twenty-five minutes beforehand?" Brock let fly with a brutal kick to Cheryl's midsection, his boot cracking a couple of her ribs.

"You didn't…" she started, turning her head towards him, only to meet her uncle's standard issue footwear catching her right in her teeth.

"And you also think his body's at peace in the place you left him…as if it's not being tested upon right now, by the Santa Cabeza cattle scientists. You don't really know too much about your father, do you?

"Cheryl, see…Harry was a good man…_generally_…but he was adept at making mistakes…sort of like flyboy out there." He pointed out to the autogyro, which was still slowly approaching the mall. "When the going got tough, after he left that small town that almost claimed you and your mother…all he did was run. All he did was hide. It didn't save him any, in the end. Not from his enemies…and not from me either.

"Your dad wasn't harsh enough with you…he didn't know how to raise you. I did know how, though. I wanted you all for myself, Cheryl. All these missions out in God knows where…and I never had a little girl of my own to take care of.

"Now I see that you're a…eh…bigger girl…and that suits me just fine, too." He looked down lasciviously at her bountiful, if somewhat battered figure.

Just as Brock was about to descend upon her, a bullet grazed across his face, drawing blood and driving him back. Another line of scar would be added to his features in the ensuing hours.

_Must be Douglas_, Cheryl thought. _I've got to finish this…before this monster gets to him too._

Albeit with enormous effort, she rose to her feet and took a staggering step towards her uncle, who was still stunned by the incoming shot. Positioning herself directly behind Brock, she executed a maneuver so insidious that not even her unctuous uncle had considered it before: a double-supported chokehold, a neckbreaker if held for long enough.

"Come here," she said. She hooked both her arms under his then pulled up, wrapping her hands around the back of his neck.

"Closer." She applied as much pressure as she could. The added bulk of her breasts almost severed Brock's spine in the process.

Cheryl then released, stopping short of breaking her uncle's neck even though she considered it for a moment. She stood before him a moment, waiting for a reaction.

He shifted his weight forward, as if to attack one more time. She shifted back, the momentum from her chokehold still within her, and, performing a push that resembled the weakest shove that a helpless unarmed survivor would give an oncoming zombie, sent the commander sprawling over the walkway railing. Brock hit the ground with a sickening crunch, facing upward with eyes closed.

"That's a wrap," Cheryl said softly, looking down at her uncle's prone shape.

The shock of a window shattering meters away turned her head. Douglas.

But the man before her, breaking the glass with a sledgehammer, a sniper rifle at his feet, wasn't the investigator with whom she adventured, with whom she fought, with whom she loved.

It was a lumpy-looking fellow, with a Ratman t-shirt, goofy glasses and a backwards hat.

What was his name?

"Dick?" Cheryl started, limping toward the man as she also noticed Douglas—her Douglas—emerging in his gyro copter through the open window space.

"Nick," the man corrected, tossing the hammer against an unbroken part of window nearby. He motioned to the sniper rifle. "Yeah, I fired the shot a second ago."

"Who are you?" Cheryl asked. She was confused.

"He's your contact, Cheryl," a voice a few feet away replied. Douglas was unstrapping himself from his craft, his midnight hair flowing in the midnight breeze. "I told you his name started with 'N' and he had a real soup strainer of a mustache."

Nick doffed his cap and nodded respectfully to the gorgeous girl. "I never did meet her out in the mall, Mr. Carter. Even though I hung around there for a good while."

"What? Didn't we say for you to go by the plaza with the rides, the amusement park theme…kind of just like Lakeside Park, Cheryl?"

"Oh…I…I thought you said to go to Movieland…"

"No, I said 'Wonderland,' not 'Movieland.'"

Cheryl took the deepest sigh. "Wonderland, Movieland, whatever…let's just beat on out of here already, alright…darling?" As she reached Douglas, she placed a warm hand on his chest.

"Er, ah, yes my love. Nick, erm, the autogyro seats three, you know…you sure you don't want to come with?"

"Nah, I've got a jet pack over by the Knickknackery. You two lovebirds enjoy your time together. After all, you've earned it." As Nick plodded off, Cheryl stared after him, wondering how such a gomer could hack it as a covert operative. But, she supposed, that was the entire genius of his disguise.

She then glanced down to where her uncle lay. Or so she thought.

Gone.

The culmination of her revenge denied…again. She should have ended him while she had the chance.

"Come, my love," Douglas said to Cheryl, embracing her tightly. "The night awaits us."

"Take me to Happy Burger, darling?" she rested her weary head in the crook of her man's neck.

"Anything you want. I love that you're such a cheap date…"

"Well, it's where we met…or close to it, anyways. You know its sentimental value." After getting a bite, and sharing more than a couple wonderful moments with Douglas, Cheryl would set sights on her next mission—finding her father, dead, alive, undead, or otherwise.

As the two embraced passionately once more, settled into the autogyro, and then set aloft among the clusters of clouds surrounding Willamette, a lone figure stepped across the tile of Entrance Plaza, watching them escape. _Hmph, that was a good move she pulled,_ he thought, rubbing his neck in wonder. _I'll have to try that sometime…though it wouldn't be as effective with my chest as it was with hers._


	12. Grocery Queens

SEPTEMBER 12TH, 12:48PM

A bevy of bottles and brand labels lined the finely crafted shelves in flawless formation. Gil gazed at his handiwork and grinned.

_Another day, another order fulfilled,_ he thought, pumping his palms together in satisfaction. He was a proud person, having developed his own line of wines after retiring from his workaday office job, adoring the drink so much that he even personally delivered bottles on weekends to certain places. Stores such as Seon's Food N' Stuff here, at the Park View Mall, the big time in terms of Coloradan commerce.

At the same time, he couldn't wait to leave. Of all the places to which he delivered his wines, Gil enjoyed Seon's the least. Having to interact with those two…maniacs, who figured most prominently in the store's operations, was not high on his list of leisurely ways to spend a Saturday.

One of said maniacs was coming his way right now.

"Well, we've made it through another September 11th, thank Godlessness," said the emerging man, a pudgy store manager, his arms laden with a bin of cooking oils. "Those terrorist bastards target major mercantile establishments, you know…I have to keep a steady watch on my store, especially this time of year."

_Brother…here we go with his daily, dallying delusions,_ Gil thought. He really didn't want to go through this litany again.

"I could completely see it, too," the shopkeeper continued, "aircraft flying overhead, outside in Leisure Park, right out there, firing missiles or _being_ the missiles themselves…suicide bombers all ga-ga in their religious raving, strapped down with dynamite, ready to leap at the nearest innocent civilian shopper…caches of plastic explosive tucked away in trucks in the maintenance tunnels…"

"Steven," Gil replied, "why would you think that any terrorist would bother with a boring, no-name town like Willamette? This is the last place they would go after."

"My sales," was all that the manager said. "My sales, they're after things like that…they're _jealous_ of Americans and their commercial successes. I can't have my sales be jeopardized by those…psychopaths.

"And I _won't_ have my store suffer damage from their senseless acts." His eyes increased exponentially in intensity with this last statement.

Gil only knew Steven for several weeks now, but he was aware that the man was anxious about two unfavorable things: one of them, as he just observed, was terrorism. But that was really just during September.

The other, which was the perennial preoccupation, was vandalism. God forbid someone should smear the frozen food container doors with shampoo, or squirt condiment goo all over the cash register keys, as had happened before. Steven was sick of this horseplay—in his store, his _baby_ no less!—and was determined to put a stop to it, permanently.

"Any, uh…any new…occurrences, Steve?" Gil asked sheepishly, his hands in his suit pockets.

"Of what? Vandalism? No, not in the last couple of days. But I'm always ready, I'll be ready for anything, from terrorists to teenagers, I know those little imbeciles come in here and mess up my food and stuff!" He was getting worked up now. "Agh! Just thinking of it makes me want to go across to the Huntin' Shack and…ugh! I never catch them doing it, but…I'll get those pieces of…feces at some point!

"And that's not the least of my problems now, either! Now there's some kind of, like, bees in my produce! I saw these weird, freaky bugs going through my grapefruits…we don't use pesticides on our fruits and vegetables, just as the brochure says…but maybe it's time to heighten the security around here, against everything!!"

Gil squeezed his eyes shut, half hoping to make the other man disappear. He had had his fill of Steven Chapman for the day. "Well, Steve, I'm sure you and Larry will work it all out. Speaking of the big babyface…it's about his lunchtime, isn't it? Let me bring him down some grub, if that's okay."

"Yeah, sure, sure," Steven's eyes were still huge in his head, and, as Gil now noticed…a bit dilated. "Just don't get him any meats, any fish or anything like that…he's on a new diet now. Funny, huh? He's a butcher, and he's swearing off meat!"

"Alright, I've got it," Gil said, smiling and quickly giving a cordial handshake. "See you again soon."

"Have a nice day," Steven replied, setting off to put his precious goods in their proper places.

Gil sighed a bit as he began to stroll toward the produce section. He was unable to understand the manager's fixations with certain things. But, he figured, he was new to the business sphere, while Steven had swum in those waters for years upon years. Maybe, after a while, just as attachment with a child grows all the more passionate with the passage of time, one's involvement with a commercial establishment intensified equally as much.

Gil didn't like the way Steven's eyes looked, though. He noticed too that those pharmacy keys were dangling from his apron pockets again. He knew that the man was a chain smoker, and wondered also if he didn't have some stronger stimulants stashed away somewhere in the drug area…something a bit more illegal than analgesics.

Gil, on the other hand, was into the depressants. After all, it was his stock in trade, his life's work now. Ah, sometimes when he put in a full day, managing his new operation, making orders and such for his own brand, Labolt, he would sneak a nice bottle of the competition—an old friend of his that went by the name of Loire. He could never forget the name, even in his most distant of stupors, because it was always printed prominently on the label.

The fledgling entrepreneur retrieved an orange and a zucchini, and started through the flapping double doors near the seafood section. Larry had interesting tastes in cuisine, and could eat almost anything really. So this would do, for now anyway.

He hesitated a bit before descending the stairs, however, his mind pitching backward to what happened in June.

He thought of his lover, Leah Stein, and Grace, their gift from God. How the latter was nearly lost and how the former almost followed her.

The real reason why Gil was not a fan of Seon's.

Even though their daughter was now four, Leah always still referred to her as her "baby." She worshipped the child devoutly, and couldn't imagine life without her. Gil built his life around the girl as well, and placed her above all things, his business, his health, his life. Though maybe not his drink.

Even in naming the "baby," when it was really a baby, an infant, Gil chose "Grace" because it sounded like "Grape." Of course, he told Leah that it was all about God's grace and flowery rhetoric like that—although she was Jewish and he was a Catholic, it was still basically the same Judeo-Christian God upon which they focused their faith. But it was really another power that influenced Gil's decision.

Placing a foot onto the first stairwell step, Gil remembered what transpired two months ago. The cheery threesome had set upon Seon's for some good old ground meat, because who in the area was more of a maven in that field of food than Larry Chiang? They procured a pleasant little package from the man, confident in his reputation as the best butcher this side of Boulder.

Hours later, however, Grace was upchucking the ground chuck in a flood of vomit, with Gil holding her tightly and Leah hysterical with despair on the dining room floor. The couple was certain that, at that point, their child was going to go from them forever. Fortunately, God validated Gil and Leah's gift by saving Grace, as she stabilized after several uncertain moments. Hugging Grace and kissing her profusely, the couple breathlessly thanked their common deity and whisked Grace to the nearest hospital.

On the way over, Grace started bawling uncontrollably, still afraid of dying. Her behavior proved contagious as Leah started to lose it again, babbling to Gil about how she never heard her daughter cry like that before, even when she was in diapers and couldn't walk or talk yet. Gil managed to hold the family together, comforting them with soft words and warm embraces, until the experts could take over at the emergency room. There, Gil and Leah discovered the cause of their daughter's near death: spoilage of her supper. That meat was bad for over two days…and Larry looked like the prime-cut suspect.

Leah detested the butcher for his negligence. My baby's not gonna die from spoiled meat, she'd said again and again, almost as if chanting a mantra. She swore she'd drag the butcher into his basement by the leg, hang him on one of his hooks, and push him into his own processor if she saw him behind the counter again. Gil chuckled inwardly when his love told him this, trying to conceive a picture of the scene in his mind.

He comforted Leah and Grace once more, ensuring them that their pain and suffering would be vindicated. He really had different feelings than those of his lover, regarding Larry, however. Gil just felt sorry for the man; despite his profession and his imposing profile, he was really just a huge teddy bear—he even resembled an oversized baby to some extent. And how he cried so effusively when he found out what befell Grace. Larry laid his head at Gil's feet when the connoisseur came to tell him, sobbed and cooed just like a newborn.

It even made Gil consider dropping the impending lawsuit for a second. But Leah would probably choke him if he did that.

Gil reached the bottom of the stairs at last, after several slow, pondering footsteps down, and paced through the maintenance tunnel briefly to open the double doors to Larry's lair.

"Ah, Mr. Jimenez, so good to see you once again," the butcher graciously greeted him. "How's my favorite customers doing…my favorite family, if I may say?"

"We're all just fine, Larry," Gil calmly returned, holding out the orange and zucchini. "Here, I brought you some stuff for lunch. Steven told me about how you're cutting back on fish and meats and everything, so…"

"Yes, my new diet, that's right," the butcher said, swinging his arms lightly as he stood in place. "I've already lost thirty or forty or so, can't you tell?"

Gil wondered if the man lost weight because he was actively trying to do so, or if it was incidental to his constant fretting over what happened with Grace. "You're…you're becoming a new man before my very eyes, Larry," he said.

Larry let himself smile a little. His reputation would be rehabilitated in time; things would work out. He cocked his head, almost coquettishly. "So what can I do for you today, Mr. Jimenez?"

"Ahh, nothing really, I don't really need any meat today. I…what's that?"

Gil pointed past Larry, to the area around where the meat chart dividing up the drawing of a cow was positioned. What looked like a giant hornet was floating around one of the multicolored outline's rear flanks. It was larger and appeared more menacing than any arthropod he had ever before encountered.

"Oh, fudge, another one of 'em," Larry muttered, more to himself than to his visitor. He stalked across the chamber, dislodging a cleaver protruding from a nearby table. The bug hovered five feet away from him.

Gil gaped in shock as the man then rushed toward the wall, vivisecting the insect in a second with the knife. Pieces of the pest splattered all over the bloody floor. Larry's speed was frightening, given his size.

"You just wait right there, sir," Larry said to Gil, over his shoulder. "In a moment, you can spy the best ground bee I've ever wasted." He lifted his massive thigh, then brought his foot straight down on the bug's remains, thoroughly squashing the dismembered bug.

"Where the heck did that come from?" Gil asked, staring at the new stain on the ground.

"I haven't the foggiest idea, Mr. Jimenez. They've just started coming in the last couple of days, getting at the meat…I mean, the slop in here, yes, heh…the slop, that's right, the slop in the troughs around here, heh, heh, heh…"

Larry continued to laugh nervously for a few more seconds. Gil ran a hand through his waning hair, trying to grasp what was happening to the market. After a couple more minutes of small talk between the two, it was time to go.

Gil sniffed a few times. "Well, Lar, it has been good speaking with you as always, but I have to get on my way." He offered his hand and Larry ambled over, clutching it with a sweaty paw of his own.

"Always a pleasure, sir…always a pleasure. Come again soon."

Before he turned to exit, Gil gave the butcher the once-over again. He had on executioner's boots, and wore a huge undershirt to work as if he were white trash (though he was Chinese). And his last name meant "spear" in his native tongue. But Gil just couldn't share in Leah's righteous rage; the gigantic guy just appeared so innocent.

And yet at the same time, somehow capable of such carnage, taking into account his type of work as well as the way he charged and carved up that poor insect. He'd hate to see Larry handling a much larger animal.

Gil bounded up the stairs much quicker than he had plodded down them, and rejoined the living on the main floor of the supermarket. As he padded through the double doors and neared the "King of Wine" displays again, he noticed Steven once more, his agitation unfortunately replenished as he took a customer aside near the pharmacy counter.

"Listen to me, and listen good, partner," he said to the other man. "I DON'T allow evangelism IN MY STORE!!"

A few customers understandably turned their heads. _This_ was the man in whose store they were shopping?

"I…I came here to sterilize, not to proselytize," the man replied, bald and in overalls. He _was_ a born again Jehovah's Witness, and did ply his religious wares in various places…but he really wasn't here for that, even though he did have the proper pamphlets on him. "Honest, I don't want to be any trouble…I just came to the counter to find out where I can get some peroxide, and maybe some allergy medicine, for my sinuses and a bee sting…I've been hurt…"

"HURT?!" There was just no stopping Steven once he was wound. He looked as if he was going to devour the man whole. "That's what the last son-of-a…"

"Steven, Steven!" Gil broke in, taking the shopkeeper by the arm and stepping away from the counter. The manager was fuming, but let his acquaintance handle him for a moment.

"You've got to settle down some," Gil said, soothingly. "Think of your customers, your…sales."

The words were beginning to reach the middle-aged maniac. Steven's breathing slowed a bit…though his eyes were still a pair of cartoon bombs waiting to detonate.

"You'll take a heart attack at some point if you keep this up," Gil continued. "You can't take your beloved store with you…and who will run your store when you're gone?" Gil paused. "Larry?"

Steven stopped his huffing and relented, even snickering a bit at the thought of that towering toddler of a man managing the Food N' Stuff.

Gil went even further. "I mean…that bible-thumping, tract-pushing hick over there?! Do you want him to run your store?"

"Jimminez…" Steven started, shaking his head. Gil hated it when people mispronounced his surname like that…everyone who was educated knew it was "hee-MEN-ez." But he didn't pay it any mind, because he was trying to keep someone else from losing his.

"…'Cause that's what's gonna happen if you don't calm down," Gil finished, rubbing Steven's arm in a placating manner. "Got it…pardner?"

Steven looked at him and smiled great and wide. It was good to not see that mouth screwed up into a scowl for once. "Got it. Thanks."

"Look…just take a breather for a sec, I'll handle Baldy Good-Book over here," Gil said. Steven nodded, then went over to mind a nearby register as the wine man addressed the customer.

"So…what is it you need again? I'm Gil, by the way."

"Leroy McKenna. I've been stung, not long ago, by this weird wasp or something, and I just wanted to be able to treat it…it's a little sore, and itching like crazy." He clawed at the back of his neck, as if to corroborate what he said.

"Alright. Well, let's ask the pharmacist…"

No one was behind the glass at the counter.

"Ooooookay. Well, I'll just have to go round back and see if I can get you something, myself. You just sit tight, or stand tight, as it were…right there, okay?"

"Sure, sure," Leroy responded. He continued to scratch at the bite on the base of his neck. "Damn it!" he spat in irritation.

Gil started back toward the double doors, intending also to find out what became of the pharmacy personnel that was supposed to be at the counter. He faltered after a few steps across the floor, however, his attention captured by a brunette browsing baguettes.

The object of his infatuation: Dana…Dana Simms.

Sometimes when Gil would kick back with a bottle of Labolt (or, admittedly, Loire on more occasions), he would imagine himself in his younger, more devilish days, entrancing young ladies with his sharp Latino looks and his masculine wiles. Leah was once wilder, herself, much more meshuganeh than mild mannered mother. Dana sort of reminded Gil of her during those days; they both had similar frowsy, fretting looks which he found very sexy, somehow. _There's nothing to worry about, baby,_ he would say to such a woman, calming her and charming her simultaneously, setting her up for inexorable seduction. Or as Gil would call it, "seducation." It was his school for spooning, lessons for languishing in love, or at least lust.

And school didn't necessarily have to be out for the summer, he thought to himself as he took in Dana's curves by the bread stands. He'd spoken with her a few times, finding her fascinating, wishing to turn down the intensity of her eyes with a lock from his lips. How he would love to carouse, er, converse with her further…perhaps at That's A Spicy Meatball! or Chris' Fine Foods.

She suddenly perked her head up, noticing him watching in his frozen, transfixed stance. She abruptly looked down again, laughing lightly to herself, giving a semblance of a small wave toward him.

Gil's heart instantly liquefied. She felt for him as well; he was certain of this. He felt as if he was about to melt into the black and white tiles beneath him, collapse absent any control. Just faint, falling onto the floor…

…kind of like the hick back there in the overalls did just now.

"WHAT'S GOING ON IN MY STOOOOOOOOOORE?!"

It turned out that, in the following few moments, Gil was one of the only inhabitants of Seon's that _didn't_ crumple to the ground. Customers all around were quavering and trembling, all the while swatting at the air around them as if trying to repel some sort of pests, a fleet of mosquitoes maybe…a gaggle of gnats…

Or maybe just a simple, single, stinging queen bee.

He could see them, perched upon pizzas, mulling around the melons…they were everywhere.

Gil glanced back at Leroy, sure that the man would die right then and there. Unbeknownst to him, a strange genetic factor existed in the Jehovah's Witness's nervous system that would prevent him from suffering the worst effects of the sting he sustained. But it wouldn't stop him from passing out now, anyway.

Gil then shot a gaze over to his unfavorite shopkeeper, who was fixing to shift into his other, less personable persona at this point. Again, Gil was unaware of what was going on within the man in his sights, unknowing of the forces and voices within Steven's combed-over head.

_S is for Steven, S is for shampoo! C is for Chapman, C is for condiments!…frozen foods and cash registers, frozen foods and cash registers…do it, Steven, just as you've done it so many times before…you deserve to have a little fun from time to time…then tell yourself it was all the fault of teenage imbeciles, that's right, or terrorists, yes yes, religious fundamentalists facing off against the Food N' Stuff, that's the ticket._

Steven skulked toward Gil, looking ready to foam up, his teeth gnashing.

"It's time to clean up Register 6 again," was all the man said. He headed off toward the condiment section. Later, he would get another fix in the pharmacy, stepping thoughtlessly over the bodies of the stung, catatonic attendants near the counters, then take that trip to Ripper's Blades he'd been planning. He had his own special, super sized cart all set up for a nice shopping spree…

Confused, confounded, and just plain afraid, Gil ran past the several bodies and bees around him to reach the wine racks once again. He would need some Labolt to help in his bolt from the market.

As he reached his favorite displays once more, he looked all around at the finely crafted shelves that he adored, the Labolt that he loved like Leah, the Loire for which he lusted, like Dana.

The King of Wine had been deposed by droves of quivering queens.


	13. Troublesome Tompkinseseses

SEPTEMBER 20TH, 8:00 AM

Through the glass behind the counter at Ye Olde Toybox, Pamela saw her neighbor, Mr. Stalworth, booking for his life. The poor middle-ager was flanked by unreal, unliving organisms on all sides, and it didn't look like he was going to make it to where he was headed, wherever that was.

"Mr. Stalworth!" she cried out, wishing she had the guts to go out there and help him, wishing that he could hear her through the din of undead. The man was so nice, a good guy living next door who could always be trusted to lend a hand to her family when needed. It was such a welcome sight to see him, even amidst the dreadful population before her. Thank God her parents were out of town, so they weren't caught up in all of this; she only wished that her neighbor were so lucky.

"Mr. Stal…ahh, GORDON!!"

She was shaken abruptly by her sister, who was heretofore futilely searching the store for things to use as weapons, and finding no purchase.

"The hell do you think you're doing?! You want those freaks to know we're here?" Heather spat, her fingers blinking frenetically as she spoke.

"It's Mr. Stalworth out there," Pamela said. "He looks like he needs help…"

"WE need help, Pamela!" her sister returned. "We need to find better ground than this…and something to fight those monsters with. We can't stay here in this…toy bin."

Pamela glanced back out to the main floor of Paradise Plaza, watching her neighbor scrambling farther and farther away. It looked as if he were making a break for the Entrance Plaza, or maybe Al Fresca. She noticed a boomerang on a counter out of the corner of her eye; she wished she could fling it and bring the man back, to safety in the store with her and her twin.

"I still wish we could help him," she said, her eyes glued to sights past the glass before her.

"Yeah, like maybe I could take this toy sword here and slice a ton or ten off his fat ass…it'd help him dodge those beasts a bit faster."

"Heather…"

"Pammy, we don't have the time, or the blood to give, to help out that poor bastard. He's on his own over there, just like we're on our own over here. We have to start thinking about ourselves, if we're going to make it through this. I swear, I'm starting to think that if I stay with you, we'll both die!"

After Heather finished, she noticed her living reflection glaring at her with burning eyes of brown.

"Look, Pamela…I have no problem with helping people, in general. But this is an extreme situation. You see all those zombies out there, by the big windows where Stalworth was a moment ago? They'd overtake us in a matter of milliseconds. …I'd do it for you, I'd do it for my twin, but I wouldn't do it for anyone else. Certainly not for that tub of lard out there."

_Poor Mr. Stalworth,_ Pamela thought. He even took her to the hospital once after she suffered a horrible bee sting; her allergies kicked in almost fatally and he ran so fast to her. She so wanted to return the favor.

But maybe her sister was right. After all, she was her twin; shouldn't they be thinking alike, feeling alike? Maybe there was something wrong with her; maybe she should start thinking more about herself, like Heather.

"Alright, Heather," she said. "What's our plan, from here?"

"Well, _my_ plan," her twin started, "is that we should start by seeking higher ground here in Paradise. Sticking around on Level One in toyland isn't going to do us any good. We need to find a place that has better shelter…and food…and weapons, if possible."

"Makes sense," Pamela said.

"Of course it does," Heather replied. "It's my idea. Anyway, we should get moving…" she peered out the window and, fortunately, some of the nastier looking monsters had roved onward from their position, "…now seems to be a good time."

Pamela squeezed her hands together, then braced herself to stand. "Well…I'm ready when you are."

"Good. On three, then. One…" the twins locked eyes, making sure they were totally in synch with one another.

"Two," said Heather. The other twin looked back for a second; was there anything good to beat the creatures away with, in the store? Did Heather miss anything?

Pamela's sister slapped her in the arm. "THREE! Let's go!!"

Without looking back to check if her twin was with her, Heather bolted out of the Toybox, sprinting meters ahead. "Wait, Heather!" was a pair of words barely slipping into her ears as she ran.

Around the two of them, the zombies circled, their arms flailing, their teeth working up and down. The swiftness of the twins kept them from falling into their demonic jaws.

"Come on, come on! Damn it! What should we…here! Pamela, here!" Heather padded into the first floor entrance to SporTrance as soon as she saw it. Pamela straggled behind, and was almost grabbed by a creature, formerly a comely, busty woman with a black evening dress and black-green hair. Fortunately, the undead vixen's aim was off, due to her nonliving state, and she ended up grasping the air wafting behind the trailing Tompkins.

"This place better be good," Pamela said as she staggered in. It looked like it would be okay; an array of tennis racquets decorated the side of one aisle, and chances were that other sporting goods would double as decent weaponry as well.

"Come on, there's stairs over here," Heather called, already on the first step and hugging the railing. Pamela was surprised that she didn't take a racquet as she raced by.

"Okay, okay, just…give me a sec here…" Pamela had to take a second to…rearrange the furniture in the back, so to speak. She shot a hand to her behind and plucked the maroon fabric of her underwear out of her crack. _Sexiness is the antithesis of comfort,_ she thought. These things were always riding up her ass.

"Pammy, this is no time to…adjust yourself, okay?! There's a legion of the undead out there, and we can't stop for anything!"

"I know, I know; I'm coming." Pamela nabbed a racquet as she set off again, starting toward the stairs to join her sister.

The two reached the top an instant later, panting like puppies pursued by pinschers. It was almost a minute later, as they were still catching their breath at the steps, that Pamela realized that there might be a third set of lungs working frantically nearby…beneath them.

"Is…anyone there?" she asked, knowing full well that Heather might again berate her for calling out.

For a second, no one nor nothing responded. Then: "Help me…"

Pamela ducked her head into the stairwell. "Who…I'm coming down…" She took a step. An arm dragged her back.

"Pam, no," Heather grunted. "I'm not letting you do this."

"God damn it, Heather! Someone needs our help!"

"Let her help herself. We're in this for each other, remember? Just us two."

Pamela shook her sister off. "We're up here, come on!" she called down.

The head of a pretty young brunette craned into view and looked up at the twins from the bottom of the stairs.

"Heather? Pamela?"

It was Miss Gorman.

Pamela couldn't believe their twelfth grade English teacher was underneath them right now, begging them for assistance.

She wanted to jump down, the second she saw those terrified eyes. Miss Gorman was so amazing, so engaging, in class; Pamela loved novels before, but this instructor singlehandedly made her want to become a literature professor when she grew up. Everything about the woman was admirable: her demure demeanor, her thoughts on anything from Shakespeare to the situation in the Middle East…even the way she dressed, Pamela thought of emulating it. Seriously, looking at Miss Gorman's elegant elements of style made her want to drop her short shorts.

If anyone asked her who was a major role model for her in her life, besides Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins themselves, it was Jennifer Gorman.

She knew her sister wasn't nearly so high on her, though; Heather wasn't as prepared for those pop quizzes as the next person, least of all Pamela. And it showed, on her progress reports and report cards.

"Oh, Miss Gorman…just give me a second, I'm coming down."

"No, stay there…Pamela, please…you've got to help me hide," the teacher implored, starting up the stairway. "They're coming after me…they're going to take me…"

"The…the zombies?"

"No…just…just give me a couple more seconds and I'll tell you…" Miss Gorman looked over her shoulder as she reached the fourth step, out into Paradise once more. _Good, they haven't caught up to me yet,_ she thought, straining to see past some of the shambling creatures outside.

Because the young woman was trying so hard to scan the main floor of the mall, she never saw the cash register that flew past the top of Pamela's outstretched arm by a couple of inches and smashed into her chest.

The teacher tumbled down the few stairs she had covered, sprawling onto her back in agony.

"That's for almost failing me, you miserable whore!" Heather yelled down, her sister beside her staring in shock. "Go to hell! And get the frig away from us!"

"HEATHER!!" Pamela finally managed. How _could_ she…?

"Pammy, I…we…"

"NO! You can't do that!!" Pamela shoved her sister—hard—and Heather abruptly fell on her bottom. "I'll defect from this…_twinship_…I'll disown you as my own sister…" She looked to a hanger nearby, and honestly considered strangling her sibling with it for a second.

Heather looked up at Pamela hovering over her, petrified beyond belief for an instant, contemplating whether being out there with the zombies might be a healthier option for her right now. The twins maintained their gazed on one another for a second longer.

"No…no…NOOOOOOO!"

They both whisked their heads around and ran to the stairwell.

"They've FOUND me! NOOOOOOO!"

Through bloodied eyes, Jennifer Gorman watched helplessly as three raincoated figures wearing demonic greenish masks made their way through the sporting goods to get to her.

"HELP ME!! PAMELA!!"

"MISS GORMAN!!"

Pamela leaned over the railing, struggling to see what was going on. _That's it,_ she thought. _I'm going down there. Screw my sister._

A beat later, another head popped into view to peer upward at her. But this one wasn't that of a benevolent, role model schoolteacher.

The masked face beneath Pamela, looking like a truly terrifying trick-or-treater, made the Tompkins twin stop in her tracks. She loved Jennifer Gorman as much as her Mom and Dad—and more than Heather, now, she realized—but was she worth going through _this?_

The girl's mind was suddenly made up for her one way or the other, however, as her twin tucked her arms around Pamela's legs and picked her up, hauling her through the second floor of SporTrance.

"Heather…put me…put me _down!!_"

"No." They reached the concourse of Paradise, Heather carrying Pamela past a couple of leering creatures into the huge coffee shop across the way. She threw her sister into a chair once they got inside.

"Pamela," Heather said, walking over to get a nearby pie, "we've got to keep moving. There's no way around this situation. We have to put our heads down and go straight through it. I came out two seconds before you when we were born. Therefore, I know best. We have to save our strength and do for each other…I'd do it for you, I'd do it for a Tompkins, but I'm not doing it for anyone else…" She went on and on.

The other sister just sat there, dazed, unable to register everything that just happened in the last minute.

All she knew was, the face she was looking into now was even ghastlier than that of the masked man a moment ago…even though its features were identical to her own.

Pamela knew that, lately, at least subconsciously, she was starting to grow apart from her sister. It was only over the past year or so; they were inseparable in every way before that. If Heather started a sentence, Pamela would finish it. If Heather wore a hat that said JUICY, as she did today, Pamela would wear one that said LICIOUS. Things like that.

Now the twins, functioning as one, were beginning to break in two. Pamela was starting to focus on her studies and her future, while Heather was pondering popularity and prom night. Sister and sister weren't looking out for one another as much, because they wouldn't spend their Fridays or Saturdays in the same place, wouldn't occupy the same space anywhere or anytime really, anymore.

Despite the graces and influences of Miss Gorman—poor Miss Gorman!—Pamela still hadn't quite escaped the hand of conformity hanging over her head, hadn't outgrown certain habits. So she still wore revealing apparel, though now it was a certain crass double-digit number on her clothing instead of any logo Heather preferred. Pamela even sewed on a "P" to ensure all who saw her that this was _her_ thing, not her sister's.

She didn't really feel, inside, the statement that her clothes were making, however. It was all an act; she honestly wanted to save herself, for marriage, for a better life later on. It was just a way of…gradually breaking away from Heather.

_Though I might wear that 69,_ Pamela thought, _it's my sister who's out to screw everyone over…thinking only of herself._

"Man," Heather said, from across the table at which the twins were sitting, "now _I've_ got to get up and fix myself." The girl stood, tugging at the cream cloth crammed between her cheeks. "These panties are just not practical in situations like this."

CA-CHLICK

The twins turned their heads to the right, to where the unusual sound just issued. Heather could swear the noise was like that of a camera executing a photograph; who was bonkers enough to do a shoot, right now, enmeshed amongst all these monsters?

The emergence of a young man with spiky hair and a goofy goatee answered the lingering question.

"Wow, look at _you,_" said the young man, or man-boy, as it appeared. _Gross_ was the single common word on both the Tompkins' minds as they looked him up and down, repulsed by his tacky khaki vest and shabby shorts…not to mention his scruffy hair and face in general. He kind of looked like he could be on Dateline in a few years…or, on second thought, right now.

In turn, the guy looked at both girls and their attractive accoutrements up and down…and up and down and up and down and up and down again.

It was a few seconds later that he realized he was staring, making the young ladies more uncomfortable than any undead creature could. "My name's Kent," the unkempt one said, offering a shake in introduction. Neither twin took the hand.

"Uhh…it's, um, nice to see someone still breathing out here…at least as a normal person should," Kent stammered, trying to break the ice in some way. He wasn't looking for help or escape, as the girls were; all he cared about was taking titillating pictures of every kind—and these two looked to be perfect for his next shot.

"Yeah, well," was all Pamela could manage. She did not like, at all, the way this guy was ogling them. And that camera…she wanted to smash it in his face, for having snapped their picture; perhaps it would improve his features anyway. This was the first human all day that she encountered whom she didn't want to save.

Heather was just glancing, more glaring actually, at the orange juice display near the back.

As any attentive photographer should, Kent caught every detail—including Heather's gaze. "Ah, so it's something to drink that you girls want? Here, allow me." He headed over to the OJs, grabbing a sizeable bottle in each hand as he reached it.

"Think I'll help myself to some while I'm at it," he said, nervously, to no one in particular. As he took a grand swig, looking out onto the main floor of Paradise Plaza, several ounces of squeezed orange spilled all over his clothes. "Ahh, dang it…I'll…I'll be with you both in a second…"

He felt a tap on his shoulder, so he turned around, still double fisted with the OJs.

Heather was up in his face, her arms crossed over her chest.

"We know what we want, _Kent,_" she said, her eyes emitting the most sarcastic look ever. Somewhat uncomfortable at this range actually, as he was losing control over the encounter, Kent could do nothing but stare at her midriff, focusing on the cute piercing cut into her navel.

"But you," she continued, "are a bit misguided, I'm afraid. Satisfied with juice, are you?"

She lifted her hands to the top of her hatted head, arching her torso in a suggestive manner as she did so. The boy was totally bewildered.

"Why have the juice, when you could have the Juicy?"

In a flash, Heather snapped the cap off her head and shunted it down over Kent's eyes. Before he could remove it, she lunged forward and gave her toughest shove. The amateur photographer barreled backward, spinning over the railing of the café.

"Agh!" he cried, almost breaking his ass as he landed unceremoniously on the yellow ledge below. Though his bottom ached like nobody's business, he instinctively patted his chest first, to make sure his camera was still intact.

"You should cool off there for a while, perv," Heather called down, a devilish smirk deforming her features.

"I'll kill you, you lousy sluts!" Kent hollered, pulling Heather's hat off his head and throwing it at her. She dipped over and effortlessly caught it.

"Why thank you, kind sir," she replied, placing it back over her own pretty brown hair. "Though I guess I should really get this thing fumigated now, since it was on you for a second…"

"Aaaaaaargh!" was all the man-boy could manage. He actually thought about taking out his sidearm…but that would be too quick and easy. He wanted to make it more up close and personal than that.

"Heather, we should really get going, as you normally say," called Pamela from the other end of the café. She was still seated, and still somewhat out of it.

_She can be such a bitch when it gets down to it, most of the time…but I guess she does have her moments. Still, though…Miss Gorman…I can't believe what she did to her._

_It just occurred to me, my sister's name, if you rearrange the letters, you get "Hate Her." Is that the case? Do I "Hate Her"? Do I Hate my own twin sister?_

The twins left the Roastmasters a minute later, Heather leaving poor Kent out on the ledge and Pamela seriously giving thought to hanging up the thong for good when this was all over.

Kent, meanwhile, shifted on the yellow outcropping, feeling something budging underneath him.

"A katana?!" he shouted. He wouldn't have had to use his gun with those girls after all. "Damn it!"

As Heather and Pamela reached Lady About Town, a women's store on the second floor, they realized that their predicament was getting graver by the second.

"We won't find good cover in here either, I don't think, Pamela," Heather told her twin. "It might not have been such a hot idea to run up here in the first place; I admit it."

"Well, that's behind us now," Pamela said. "It's just a matter now of getting to a place where we can be the safest. …Maybe somewhere outdoors, actually, where we could climb to a rooftop hopefully, get above them…"

Heather thought for a moment. She got it. "Al…"

"…Fresca," her sister finished for her. They were finally on the same wavelength now. "That was probably where Mr. Stalworth was running to. He's always full of good ideas."

"And full of hot meals, Pamela. If that tubbo can slosh his way past all those creeps, so can we!"

"I don't really like the way you put that…but you're right. Let's go for it."

Holding hands, the two set off for the stairs nearby, taking the down a couple at a time, bravely pushing zombies to the floor as they progressed. As they hit the ground floor once again, Heather looked ahead, pointing toward the portal to Entrance Plaza, while Pamela looked behind at the stairs they had just conquered.

The latter twin jerked the former back as she noticed something strange in the window of Cantonbury's, the men's clothing place.

A beautiful young woman, her skin still a fresh flesh color, had her back up to the glass. She was cornered by three or four of the monstrous bastards, and would surely die in another instant if someone didn't help her.

"What the—Pammy, let's go!"

Pamela was being tugged both ways, physically by her sister in one direction and morally by a sense of duty in the other. She stared at the woman through the glass, about to be eaten. When they needed her, she didn't come through for her teacher; didn't come through for her neighbor.

She decided she was going to come through for this stranger.

Yanking free from her sister's grasp, Pamela ran back toward the stairs and hefted up a garbage can close by. Oblivious to Heather's raving screams, she rushed to the store window, past a half dozen cannibalistic creatures just out of reach. Reaching her target, she hurled the receptacle with all her strength.

CRSSSSSHHHHH!!

The can took a zombie or two with it as it slammed against the opposite wall of Cantonbury's. Pamela jumped through the open space created by the projectile, shoving the remaining creatures to the ground as she reached the helpless human, who was now cringing on the floor.

"Can you stand?" Pamela shouted, desperate to save someone, anyone, and redeem herself. The woman looked up and nodded.

"Yes…I think so. They didn't get me, so I should be fine."

"Good. I'm Pamela; come on, we're going to get you to safety."

"Thank you so much; you saved my life. My name's Simone."

Pamela grinned at her fellow survivor in spite of herself, overjoyed that she managed to do some good. "Come on, let's get you out of here," she said, guiding Simone through the broken glass to one of the moats in Paradise.

Now where the hell did my sister run off to? she thought as she continued on. Pamela gazed into Josh's Jewels and Players CDs, dying to find where Heather went. Her intent on finding Heather clashed with her passion to save Simone; this conflict tore the girl in half.

"I can't…can't believe there are this many monsters," Simone yelled, over the sound of hundreds groaning. "This is like a bad B-movie!"

Pamela wasn't really paying attention to what the woman said, however; she was trying to figure where her twin might have hidden. _Contemporary Reading…no…maybe…_

"AAAAAGH!"

Pamela's concentration was officially broken. She looked back at the other hapless survivor.

A member of the undead had seized her, its jaws clamping down on her upper arm.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!!" Pamela cried, grabbing a nearby discarded nightstick and driving it through the monster's head. The beast went down fast.

"Ahh, ahh…" was all Simone could get out, nursing her wounded limb. She gave the altruistic Tompkins a look that was gratitude mixed with remorse, as if to say, _Thank you, so very much…again…but…I don't want to be a further burden to you._

And with that, the young woman, in a quasi-panicked, quasi-despairing state, turned and ran off towards the bathrooms of Paradise.

Pamela furrowed her brow and wrung her hands, unable to believe that the one person she managed to save was lost to her despite her best efforts. _Well,_ she thought, _I'd better get back to my sister, asap._

She looked around again as she ran towards the way to Entrance Plaza, calling out her sister's name, her voice almost rasping as the seven-letter word left her lips again and again.

Then she remembered.

The Tompkins were not fans of the Toybox really, when they were younger. They were really much more Child's Play customers than anything. They had flashier, funner things to play with…Heather and Pamela always drenched themselves, soaked themselves to the skin with their high-powered water-shooters, for example. It used to be their favorite store…before the changes came that nature would naturally bring about, that is.

So, if Heather were still in Paradise—and she wouldn't leave the Plaza without her twin, would she?—she would be there.

Pamela jogged over to the toy outlet, jumped into the small water groove, and peered through one of the windows. Sure enough, Heather was there, hugging a counter, looking back at her through the glass.

_Thank God she's alright,_ she thought. _I might be against my sister sometimes, but I still love her. I could never hate her, even after what's happened this morning. Now, to just get to her…_

As Pamela turned to her right, she found herself stepping into the path of a team of four zombies, all famished for her flesh. She automatically turned back to her left and noticed five more of the fiends behind her. She turned to face outward towards the main mall floor, and ten more things were limping her way.

"PLEASE! HELP ME!!" she shouted to her sister. As more and more zombies began to join Pamela in the aqueous trench, she began to bang her fists against the glass, wishing they had the same effect as the garbage can did minutes ago.

"HEATHER!! HELP ME!! HEATH—HEATHER!! HEATHER!!"

The creatures were now only inches away.

"HEATHERRRRRR!!!!!"

Heather crouched beneath the counter, unable to stand her sister's screaming, unable to live with herself. Despite what she told Pamela repeatedly, she wouldn't do anything for a Tompkins, wouldn't do anything for her twin.

As Pamela began to become overwhelmed by a mass of animalistic monsters outside of Child's Play, Heather, who was alone, unhurt, clean, cozy, and safe inside the store, pulled her head between her knees and sobbed.


	14. Willamettan Wise Men

Though James was flanked by tens of droning, groaning creatures in a small corner of North Plaza, he could nonetheless make out the despairing sobs of the woman he loved. She couldn't be too far away now.

"She must be in the camera shop around the corner…she's got to be," he told Jonathan, who was gripping his shotgun tensely. "Let's move."

James and Jonathan pushed themselves off of the nearest wall, which contained an advertisement for Scallop's Painting Company. _I so wanted to go there this evening to get a few cans for my apartment,_ James thought to himself as he looked behind to make sure Jack, their mutual buddy, was following closely behind. _Sophie and I agree on beige as a choice color, and I would have covered my place all over with it, for her._

There was no time to think about that now, though; she was just yards away, and he had to go help her. The three men rounded a dumpster nearby and ran into Pearly White's Photo, where sure enough, Sophie was sprinting around in circles. Defcon Negative Five was her level of panic at this point.

James could not help but let out a sigh of relief as he laid eyes on the woman; thank God she was still alive. Now half his mission was over; the other half he knew would have to be fulfilled, no matter what the cost, and soon.

"Sid, it's Sid," was all Sophie could say. "Did you see him?! I lost him in all the monsters…I don't know where he went…"

"It's alright, it's alright," James said, going to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. "We'll find him…the four of us will." He nodded to Sophie and motioned to Jonathan and Jack behind him, who grunted approval.

James Ramsey knew that if he ever needed anything, at least in terms of getting a rough, tough, and ugly job done, he could count on Jack and Jonathan. They went back—not _way _back, but back far enough, a couple of years now. It was kismet that the three made acquaintance with one another through a small gun club that that crazy coot at the Huntin' Shack started, the "Shack Shoots."

Said owner, Cletus Samson, was so proud to have three full-blooded guys join up so fast; and how they bonded over their love of firearms. Jonathan and James were in their twenties, their best years, and regarded the club as a pleasant getaway from the travails of the workaday world. Jack was kind of young, and still in school, but viewed the Shoots as a similar sort of escape, from class as well as from his suffocating family.

The gun club had many many members now, but these three guys were the first to join. Always a lover of alcohol, Cletus referred to them by a special appellation every time he saw them come into the Shack.

"It's my Three Wise Men!" he would say, his nose always red as Rudolph's from some sort of concoction's effects. "Jack, Jim, and Jonny! God, that reminds me—where the hell did I put my whisky?"

Cletus was close with the three, but most so with James. He and "Jim" had plans to start their own microbrewery. James thought of it fondly now: Samsey Ramson, they were going to call it, as a drunken play on both their last names.

James would have to go look for Cletus at some point soon as well. But for now, he had to do for the woman who made him woozy with warmth.

The three men pounded out of the camera place, James with a submachinegun in one hand and Sophie's dainty digits in the other; Jonathan brandishing a mean-looking shotgun; and Jack with his ever-trusty hunting rifle. A throng of zombies set upon them in a flash, and a flash later they were spread out on the ground, writhing with missing heads and limbs.

"I'll take to the catwalks—I can get a better shot from there!" Jack yelled as he took off toward the nearest construction supports. The others had no problem with this; he would need as much concentration as he could to carefully pick off the beasts and otherwise watch their backs. And he was just a kid, after all; next to Sophie, he should be the one who should be most protected.

But James made sure that the redhead was closest to him; he could guard her best.

"Son of a bitch," Jonathan muttered as he blew the brains out of the nearest monster, hungry for the man's own brains. A pudgy zombie pulled into view next; he cocked his weapon and fired point blank, sending the creature splattering into pieces against the opposite wall. A third thing, a semblance of a female, knelt down and launched her head toward a place between his legs.

"You can suck this down instead, honey," he said, jamming the barrel of the shotgun into her mouth and pulling the trigger. He ran forward to join the others, who were speeding ahead, taking the left fork before them.

Jonathan wasn't planning to go on this little expedition with Jack and James when he first set foot in North Plaza. He was coming from Entrance, where he and his absolute best friends, Brett Styles and Alyssa Laurent, were trying to bust open this one door which led to the security area. It just wouldn't budge; Jonathan surmised that it must have been welded shut from inside somehow. He had a shotgun, which he found on the ground floor of the Plaza, not far from a smattering of stuff that must have been saved for a barricade at some point; but he didn't want to use it on the door, because he heard voices on the other side and didn't want to risk hurting anyone from the buckshot.

So, Jonathan decided, he would set off for somewhere that had some heavy duty tools; they would probably need a fire ax, or even a goddamn excavator, to take that door down without killing anyone in the process. Brett and Alyssa would stay there and keep trying to get the people inside the security area to let them in.

As the suave survivalist shot through Paradise Plaza on the way, it occurred to him: the Home Saloon would have the thing for all his needs. So he would have to head North.

"I'm starting to run out of bullets a bit here, guys," Jonathan heard James say as the four reached a sign at the fork that read UNDER CONSTRUCTION: ONLY AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL PERMITTED. "I might need to start conserving some, and try something else in the meantime."

"Why don't we go this way, to the Shack?" Jack shouted, arching his head in the other direction. He paused to aim into his scope, then let fly a shot that shattered a creature's scalp. "Cletus is probably there, and he can hook you up."

"No…James…Sid would be this way, I think," Sophie said, pointing past the fork sign. "I can just feel it…please…every second counts."

"You got it, Sophie. I won't let you down." James waved to Jonathan and Jack to join him in plodding ahead.

_James and dames,_ Jack thought as he jumped down from the scaffold on which he was positioned. _James and dames: they mess up his center like nothing else._

The teenager looked to the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL board again. "I'm gonna authorize us right now, sign," he said, firing his rifle at a zombie nearby, who was once a stunning woman. The she-beast's blood spattered all over the easel, blotting out its prohibiting message.

Like Jonathan, Jack did not originally intend to join an outing with his gun buddies in North Plaza. He was actually bounding in from Wonderland Plaza, where his father, Roger Hall, and his brother Thomas were hiding out at the moment. The Halls were roving around from one area of the mall to the next, looking for optimal shelter and striving to survive. Right now, the amusement area of the complex seemed pretty good.

But damn it, Jack's contacts were starting to act up! Unlike his brother and father, who relied on good old glasses, Jack preferred two eyes rather than four. Contact lenses were so much more chic, he thought. They required a bit of maintenance, however, and the kid knew that before long he would have to take a trip to the pharmacy at Seon's to get some new lenses or at least some fluid, if they had it.

So the boy braved groups of ghastly things to get to the supermarket, and fortunately there they had a plethora of contacts, his prescription to boot. On his way out, he ran across James at Register Six…and the next thing he knew, the Three Wise Men were having the most unlikely of reunions.

"James, there's a shovel over there," Jack called out from another catwalk as he took aim at one more monster. "You can use that instead of the SMG if you're low."

"Thanks, buddy," James said as he dove for the tool. He snatched the shovel up from the floor and spanged it against the head of a creature just as it was lunging for Sophie's throat. The woman started to utter a sound that could be taken as either giggling or crying, depending on who you asked. James put his money on the latter.

"Sophie, I'm here," he said to the woman of his dreams. "Don't think for a second that I'd leave you or put you in a bad situation." He turned to whack another zombie full in the face.

"I know, James," she replied, the sheen of a relieved smile gracing her features. She knew how he felt, and appreciated him…but it just couldn't be.

James looked down for a second, the flame of passion burning brilliantly within him. To distract himself, and get back to the work that needed to be done, he channeled his energy into crushing more creature heads with his shovel.

Several minutes and monster mashings later, the four winded around to reach another fork. "Where to, my lady?" James asked Sophie. "You think the CD place, or the cutlery…"

"I'd go with Ripper's," Sophie said. "Sid would probably be in a place where he could best fight these things off, if he had any good sense…which I know he certainly does."

"Right. Let's head that way, then," James agreed, motioning for the others to go left with them. Finding Sid was the other half of the puzzle James knew he had to solve, in order to really help Sophie; it wouldn't be enough just to get her to safety. James had eyes for the pretty redhead, but he knew that she devoted all of her sensory perception to Sid Carmack. The man was deaf mute and could not hear or speak well…but he was a genius, and was nationally renowned for his discoveries and advancements in his field.

Sid was an expert in computers and other highfalutin technology which James could not begin to grasp. He and Sophie were not from Willamette, Colorado, like James or Jack or Jonathan, but rather from Eugene, Oregon, located in the Willamette Valley, not far from the Willamette River—and the natives there knew how the name was _really_ pronounced.

"Willa-Met, HA!" Sophie laughed, when she first heard the Coloradans refer to their tiny town. "Everyone with half a mind and a decent education knows it's Will-LAM-It. The stress is on the second syllable. The Oregonians have it right!"

James instantly fell in love with the girl's free-spiritedness and generally laid-back demeanor. She wasn't like the plain, pointless hometown ladies to which he was accustomed. There was a certain flair to her which was so fresh and could not easily be duplicated. Even just in the way she dressed so snappily—with a hip short skirt complemented by long stylish stockings—James fell hard for her in an instant.

But he had no hard feelings for Sid, however. The man worked hard in his area—but he also played hard in it as well, being an avid game player and designer. Sophie told James that, after a recent sign language exchange with Sid, the computer whiz was planning to design the Best Game Ever. That crazy man Carmack was really good with names, and this one would be a real zinger: _Quaking Pirates of the Doomed Civilization._

James was apecrap about video games, so he was more excited than most. He decided at that point that he loved Sophie, but he adored Sid. The man would have to be saved, if not to please the comely redhead, than to preserve the welfare of modern gaming as the world knew it.

The three of them—Sid, Sophie, and James—were just hanging at the mall together for a routine shopping trip. Then everything turned topsy-turvy, with the monsters and all. The trio did their best to stay together, but pure terror and interposing zombies split them up all over North Plaza. James was doing his best now to get them all back together—with a little help from a couple of gun gurus.

Another series of seconds of firearm reports and freaks ripped apart; then the survivors reached the blade emporium at last. Sophie searched desperately, over the cashier counter and behind elaborate displays, screaming her lover's name until it became a cadence; nothing. No trace of Sid was found in the store.

"No-o-ho-ho-ho," Sophie squeaked in despair, "NO-ho-ho-ho…"

James ran to her and shook her lightly.

"Get ahold of yourself, Soph. We'll find your man—I swear it. We'll move on and try another place, be there in two shakes. Come on."

Sophie looked up at him, at his crudely carved yet somewhat handsome features. He didn't have a soft, infantile face like Sid did; but perhaps at some point, under some circumstance—maybe in some other universe, then again—she could see herself learning to love that countenance.

"O-o-okay," she said, her voice still wobbly from worry.

"Hey James, you might want to look into the wares available here while there's time to do so," suggested Jack, pushing away a nearby monster with the brunt of his rifle. "There's some nice knives around here…better than a spade, I would say."

James scanned the shop quickly, heeding the teen's smart advice. _A hunting knife…no, too small for these kind of zombie numbers; a katana or an occidental-style sword…nah, I'd need two hands for that…and I want to hold Sophie's while I'm out there._

He spied the cleavers in the corner.

_That's it,_ he decided, breaking the display glass with the butt of his submachinegun and whisking out one of the knives. It wasn't one of those large squarish cleavers that meat men ordinarily used…rather, it was a longish butcher knife sort of thing, and it would be ideal. Just right for hanging onto Sophie with one hand and slashing at the undead with the other.

Gripping the cleaver, James guided Sophie out of the store and beckoned for Jonathan and Jack to join.

"I think maybe the CD place would be a good guess for next," Jonathan offered as he rammed the butt of his shotgun into the face of a creature invading his space.

"Great idea," James said.

"Yes!" Sophie shouted in agreement. "Sid likes music; he'd go there for shelter for sure."

Jack rolled his eyes as he reloaded. Who _didn't_ like music?

The foursome made their way across the Plaza once more, fending off unliving things the whole way. The cleaver made good, short work of James' enemies as he waved the knife before him, severing scores of jaundiced jugulars as he paced along with Sophie at his side.

Soon they made it to CD Crazy, the aforementioned music place, and thoroughly combed the store over for the wayward computer conqueror. Damn it; again, nothing. Sophie looked like she was going to spontaneously combust.

"If we don't find him soon, I don't know what I'm going to do!" she cried in despair.

James stood by, about to again return her dismay with his recurring consolations. But just as he opened his mouth, he was drowned out by a drunken tirade outside:

"YIP YIP YIP! COME N' GIT IT, Y'PESKY VARMINTS!"

BLAM-BLAM, BLAM-BLAM, BLAM-BLAM, BLAM-BLAM

An instant later, the source of the shouting and blasting barreled into view. It was a rather large, bearded man with an ample stomach and an almost glowing nose. Upon seeing the man spiriting along outside, then towards the four in the store, the survivors knew they had nothing to dread.

Maybe.

"Well I'll be damned!" boomed the inebriated arrival. "If it isn't Jack, Jimmy, and Jonny, together again! Jamesy, come over here and give your brother in arms a hug!"

"Clet-oof," James barely managed as the gunshop owner charged forward and enveloped him in a hearty embrace. He caught his breath after several seconds. "It's good to see you, man."

"Likewise!" Cletus glanced around at the others. "And it's nice to see old Jonny and Jacky haven't forgotten their toys, shotgun and rifle, respectively, as always." The two men to whom he was referring chuckled a little.

"And looks like you brought a sweet young lady with you, James! What's yer name, purty?"

"S-Sophie," the young woman replied nervously.

"Gack! That's the same name of my guardian angel, watchin' over me as I send these critters out there to holy hell! A _good_ name, a _good_ name!"

There are a lot of types of drunks out there. There are happy drunks, and sad drunks; angry drunks, and paranoid ones as well. Cletus was all of these; not at once, but in phases. It looked as if he were in his happy phase at the moment.

A couple of seconds of tense silence. Then:

"James!" Cletus yelled, startling the stuffing out of everyone there. "What're you doin', with that oversized pigsticker?! Ye cain't kill them things with a knife!"

"Well, I have an SMG here, but I'm low on bullets…I was wondering…"

Cletus cut him off: "If you're gonna fight these zombies, you need GUNS!" He looked to the teenage sniper nearby. "Am I right, Jacky?"

Jack held his rifle over his head. "The man's right, James. At times like this, it's just N.R.A.: No Real Alternative."

It was at that point that James noticed that Cletus was not carrying his signature shotgun, but rather two small handguns.

"Why the changeup, in…pow-pow, Cletus?" he asked, motioning with his hands as if firing a gun.

"Aww…this?!" The big man lifted the pistols, for show. "I'm trying'a be just like you guys…you _wise_ guys as I call ya. I'm gonna be the fourth wise man. Jack, Jimmy, Jonny, call me John…John Woo. As in, Woo! WOO! WOO-WOO-WOO!..." The drunk ran back outside CD Crazy, his pistols working in a dual, vicious rhythm not unlike what would be seen in a John Woo film. "Come on, y'youngens! We haven't got all evening, thar's tons of these things to take out…and we're the ones to take 'em!"

"What a moron," Jonathan said, throwing up his hand in frustration. At this rate, they may never find Sid. "All this yellin' he's doin', he's gonna attract 'em all to where we are."

Jack hmphed agreement, shaking his head in wonder at the Shack owner's guts/stupidity/degree of intoxication. He rubbed his eyes, and a contact shifted out of place. He adjusted his lenses accordingly, focusing on the words on a poster in the shop to make sure his vision was alright. _Hmm, Cynthia Stone,_ he thought, marveling at the subject of the specific print he was scanning. _Her posthumous album, D.E.E.P…it's a shame such a woman—a former supermodel, no less—was murdered the way she was. Struck with a statue resembling The Thinker…who woulda thunk it?_

"We'd better go out there and make sure he doesn't get himself killed," James said, pointing out at Cletus. "We need to move on, for Sid's sake, anyway."

The four humans—the ones other than the drunken bastard foolishly fighting a crowd of corpses outside the supermarket—quickly padded out of the CD store. The "Three Wise Men" looked toward the one who dubbed him as such, then started forward to assist the wild man. Sophie joined them, but only after looking hard to her left, to make sure that her true love was not off somewhere in the mess that way.

She then ran to James' side once more. Just as she touched his free hand, an idea burst in the man's head.

"Sophie, it looks like this might be too dangerous for you," he told the woman he loved. "Jonathan's right; there are more zombies than ever now, now that Cletus really got their attention. Get to those shopping carts over there and take cover…please."

Sophie looked at him lingeringly, preferring to be closer to him and not wishing to be corralled into a tight, caged space like a hamster or a gerbil. But she trusted him—and even decided she loved him, if only a little. "If you say so, James," she said sweetly.

Sophie ran to a nearby cart and jumped in; James then came over, after slashing up another beast with his cleaver, and lowered an upside-down cart on top of the one in which Sophie was huddled. She would be safe now.

James turned around to see a denser population of monsters than he had witnessed in the last twenty-four hours or so. He also saw Jonathan continuing to decapitate creatures with shells seemingly traveling at lightspeed; Jack up in the complicated catwalks, taking his time with his shots but hitting home in putrid eyeballs and undead foreheads; and Cletus just going all out on an entire group of gruesomes with both his guns blazing.

"WOO WOO WOO! I'M JOHNNY WOO!"

Raising a cry of his own, James roared and drove his cleaver straight through the face of a skinny monster ambling sideways toward him. He then felt the back of his head become peppered with blood—a zombie's blood—as a creature's head detonated behind him. He looked up and saw Jack aiming in his direction, smoke issuing from his rifle's barrel, from the bullet that took out the thing about to jump James. The cleaver-wielding quasi-warrior nodded and gave a quick thumbs-up to the boy.

"Hey," said Jack to James as the latter was about to turn around and face some more monsters. James spun to face him once again, and barely caught a small blue device thrown to him. He looked at what was in his hands: a nail gun.

"Like Cletus said, guns are best against these things," Jack called down, then shrugged at James' dumbfounded expression. "Hey, it _is_ a gun…technically anyway."

"Yeah…thanks." James set to work with his new weapon, embedding steely nails into decomposing skulls at rapid clips. _Tack, tack_ went the tool as another nail found its mark in the gaping maw of an oncoming creature. _Tack, tack_ again as the mechanism nailed a female zombie's hand to the wall nearby, immobilizing her.

James wheeled around and was struck in the face by an obese zombie's free-flinging arm. The ever-so-indispensable nail gun ejected from his hands.

He lay prone on the ground, drawing his cleaver again, ready to impale the corpulent corpse the second she decided to hunker down upon him. He wasn't sure, however, that he would be able to escape her jaws—even in the course of her death throes.

"UNGH!"

CA-CRASH-CRASH

Just as the creature was about to topple onto James, a shopping cart clanged into her head and shoulders, crushing her to the floor.

A delicate hand hovered over the man, offering him up.

"Th-thanks, Soph," James said, marveling at the woman's sudden strength. "I-I didn't know you had such…oomph to you."

"It's nothing. A woman's got to take care of herself now and then." She smiled at him once more, and he again liquefied within.

"I can't…can't hold all these off for long!" a voice shouted from not far away.

James and Sophie turned their heads to see Jonathan starting to be overtaken by a flock of freaks. He was firing away, blasting off everything from shoulders to shins from the zombies, but more and more kept coming. Jack did what he could from above, capping scads of creatures from the catwalks, but Jonathan was still in grave danger.

Finally, one of the things grabbed the poor man and pushed forward, pinning him to the ground. The shotgun flew from his hands as he fell.

Cletus, who was mere feet away, noticed Jonathan's tumble, then noticed the weapon he dropped. Something rational actually clicked in his mind. _Screw the Woo,_ he thought. _It's time to get back to basics._

The haughty hick stepped up and kicked the monster atop Jonathan before it could submerge its teeth in the man's flesh. Cletus then picked up the shotgun and blew the thing to kingdom come.

"DAG NAB IT!" he exclaimed, wanting to kiss the yard of steel in his hands. "Baby, it has been too long."

He looked down at Jonathan after destroying the other beasts surrounding them. The young man on the ground did not scare easily—almost never did so—but watching Cletus in action with the shotgun was a very petrifying spectacle. As such, Jonathan flinched a bit as his savior helped him up.

Cletus caught sight of something long and shiny several meters away. He looked up at Jack, who was still busy covering the four on the floor, and stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. When Jack locked eyes with Cletus, the latter pointed and the former nodded understanding.

"EVERYONE ON THE GROUND GIT BEHIND ME!" Cletus bellowed. "JONNY, JAMESY, SOPHIE THE GUARDIAN ANGEL—GIT BEHIND ME!

"HIT 'EM, JACKY!"

"Got it! Head shot, 7.2 yards!" The kid pulled the trigger of his rifle, and the head of a zombie pushing a lengthy propane tank exploded instantaneously.

"NAW, I MEANT, HIT THE _TANK_…DANG IT, DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING M'SELF?!"

Cletus took aim with his own gun; Sophie thought that he resembled the very Devil himself as he did so. Cletus Antichrist.

Then the country boy fired.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

The entire immediate zone of zombies was erased by the propane explosion. Droves of unliving faces, torsos, and limbs dissociated into the smoky air in a single second. The survivors on the floor were safe behind the burly, inbred monolith that was Cletus; but it was all Jack could do, up in the scaffolding, to brace himself against the metalwork to keep from falling into the obliterating oblivion.

"Damn, man," the kid said, otherwise at a loss for words.

The others were mostly gathering themselves together on the North Plaza floor. Sophie was still close to James, instinctively peeking around for any monsters behind them, outside the radius of the blast. There were many beasts still approaching in the distance.

But she could also make out another figure, which was not shambling or groaning, not dead or undead. The one organism which she worshipped even more than James at the moment.

"SID! SID!"

"Sophie, WAIT!"

The girl took off down the plaza hallway, James following closely behind and skewering corpses swiftly with his cleaver. The object of Sophie's affection lay crumpled underneath a red sign with an arrow that read FIND HUNTIN' SHACK INSIDE. The resourceful redhead sped to her lover's side and dropped to her hands and knees.

"SID! Owr, owr, owr, Sid…owr, owr…"

She stroked his chest, his neck, his face as she continued to intersperse his name with her unusual whine. James stood by the two, watching for creatures in the vicinity and looking down at the couple. He loved Sophie to death, but in the back of his mind her whimpering reminded him of the sound he heard when Old Lady Lindsay Harris' poodle next door got her leg caught in the briar brush.

"Sid, are you alright? Are you hurt?" Sophie went on, forgetting in her feverishness about Sid's disability. She switched to speaking with her hands, signing her desperate questions to the man she loved. He responded with a reassuring hand of his own, indicating that he was a bit beaten up, but not seriously injured.

"Is he okay, Soph?" James asked, watching as Jack, Jonathan, and Cletus raced toward them to catch up. It appeared that "Jonny" got his shotgun back, and the hillbilly was just pushing past the monsters with his girth alone.

"Yeah, he's fine…but it looks like he's trying to tell me something else…" Sophie watched as Sid started making all sorts of conversational orchestrations with his hands, something about being forced to work on someone's laptop…a man and a woman…a handgun to his head…

Sophie furrowed her brow, trying to grasp what he was manually babbling about. She signed some questions back in an attempt to understand. Sid shook his head after a while and sighed deeply.

"Oh, good, finally," Jonathan interrupted the hand party an instant later. "You found him."

"Awesome," Jack said. "The Wise Men have won again." He looked at Cletus, almost as if for approval.

"Durn right, son," Cletus chimed in, "Ain't nothin' that can stop y'all once y'all're fired up."

Despite the fact that carnivorous carcasses were commencing to crowd around the six still living, they all stopped to take a moment nonetheless.

"Well," James started, "I can't thank you guys enough for helping us out. I really owe you one."

"It's nothing," Jack said. "Just buy us a case or three next time you see us."

"A case of whisky, that is, yip, yip, yip!" Cletus cracked. "Ye'all need to live up t'yer names, right well! I want one Jack, one Jim, and one Johnnie…it gets mighty lonesome back in the Shack sometimes."

At the mention of the gun store, Jonathan peered down the hallway leading to that deadly shop. _Perhaps that might make a decent shelter, should the security room not work out for some reason,_ he thought. _Maybe I can get Brett and Alyssa to "shack up" with me and Cletus there…if the coot'll have us._

"Look, mister," James said to the firearms proprietor, "you don't need brand names when you've got the homegrown…like the two of us said we'd make together, right?"

"Rrrrright." Cletus clapped his best buddy hard on the back. He really hated it more than anything when James called him "mister." Sometimes, though, when the man was in the most muddled of his drunken stupors, in such a state that he wouldn't be able to recognize even his own Appalachian mammy, James would call him that to try and snap him back to sobriety. "Mister" would make Cletus so mad that James' identity—and the rest of the world—would come flooding back to him.

Jack went up to James after filling a monster's eye socket with lead. "Since we're done here, I think I might be needing to get back to my father and Thomas—they're probably worried sick about me."

Jonathan nodded nearby as he emptied a shell into a creature's ass. "Yeah, Mr. Styles and Ms. Laurent are probably wondering where the hell're that ax and excavator they ordered. I gotta get going too."

"Sure thing," James replied. He grabbed each of the guys' hands hard in a brotherly grip. "Till next time, men."

Jack and Jonathan sniffed and grunted in response, then took off for their respective familiars.

While this was happening, Sid was explaining, more slowly and coherently, what befell him over the last couple of hours or so. Sophie stared at him as he signed, tears welling up in her eyes.

"How horrible!" she said.

"What? What is it?" James asked.

"He's saying that he was hit on the head and knocked out—my baby, he has such a soft skull—and when he came to…he was…in this room or space of some sort with a laptop computer…" Sophie spoke between pauses as she signed and nodded to Sid, making sure that she got the story right, "and then it was a man and woman, both Hispanic. They made him program something…it took about forty-five minutes. The woman had a gun to his head the whole time. Then, when Sid was done…they knocked him out again…and he ended up here…sob Sid!" She hugged his head close to her chest.

James gritted his teeth in fury. Sid's arrival in Willamette was heralded in the local papers. Some psychos must have learned of his technological prowess and put it to their advantage somehow.

He pulled out his submachinegun, which still contained a small quantity of bullets. He wanted to know where these psychos were, and give them a piece of his piece.

"Cletus," James said, to the large man, blasting away at zombies nearby with his dual pistols again, "You go back to the Shack and guard up your guns. I'll stay with my friends here for now. I might be paying you a little visit later for some ammunition when I'm done with this." He raised his hand with the automatic weapon.

Cletus' face and beard were matted with monster blood, but a pearly smile shined through notwithstanding. "I'll be there, Jamesy, don't you fret none." With a nod to the appealing young lady on the ground and her battered beau, the hick stalked off to his wooden-walled way station. "Here, take these peashooters in the meantime," he added, graciously throwing his handguns to the three behind him as he left. "John Woo…hah!"

James picked up the two guns and placed them in his waistband. "Come on, Sid, Sophie; it's too tight in here with these things. You'll be safer outside." The man and woman on the floor readily complied, Sophie supporting Sid as they rose.

In the next several minutes, James would guide the pair to the entrance out to Leisure Park, where surely the monsters wouldn't crowd as badly as they did in the North corridors. It might be a bit dangerous to leave them on their own—and after all the effort he and his buddies just made to reunite him with the couple—but those psychos had to pay for what they did.

Besides, Sophie and Sid would have a lot of room to run around the zombies in the park. Relatively, it would be a place to get some air, till they found even safer ground. Beyond the hundreds of skulking, semi-avoidable undead out there, James couldn't foresee the occasioning of any other dangers out there in the green grass.

"I'm going to go look for those laptop people and give them what for. I'll catch up with you guys out there in a little while." James embraced both his friends as they reached the door to Leisure. Sophie's brown eyed gaze connected with James' own for a saturating moment; perhaps in another life, in another reality. She squeezed his hand rather tightly before she let go.


	15. Blinded by Blood

SEPTEMBER 19TH, 5:40PM

Several frightened survivors native to Willamette, who were dodging monsters and foraging for food in Wonderland Plaza, recognized the mother and child scurrying into Small Fry Duds as Connie and Dakota from around the block or from down the street. The stragglers chuffed a small sigh of gratitude upon seeing them, thankful that a couple more like them were still alive and kicking amidst all this horror.

The recognition of the two clicked into Thomas Hall's mind, however, as Mommy and Dakota…and the boy was very much afraid for them.

_Mom, she's down there…she made it back, came for Jack and me,_ the teenager thought, readjusting his glasses to make sure it was them. Yep, it was them…scrambling for their lives, looking for weapons or things with which they could fashion a barricade in the store. _Sis made it too…Thank God, _he reflected.

_But if Dad sees, I know he'll kill them both._

"Thomas," the kid's father, Roger Hall, grunted as he remained hunched over, trying to replace the lens in his sniper scope. "I said I needed a handkerchief. I know you have one on you all the time…give it to me. Now."

"Oh-okay, Daddy," Thomas said, fishing out a small cloth from a pocket and delivering it to his father. It was true; the kid always kept a rag on him, since his sinuses could flare up at any moment, and he was given to sweating profusely, even in the mildest of situations. It went without saying that, right now, he was sweltering like swine.

Once the handkerchief was in Roger's hand, the teen paced back to the railing on the landing leading up to the Space Rider, so he could get another good look at the other half of his family on the first floor. They seemed to be alright…

"Thomas!"

"Y-yeah?"

"What are you looking at?"

"N-nothing." The boy stepped away slowly from the lookout point.

"I told you, we've already taken out enough zombies on that side for now. We need to be focusing on the opposite end, so that we don't get overwhelmed. Keep sniping back and forth, top floor then bottom, and back once more." He paused. "We're doing this to survive."

"I know that, Daddy."

"Well, you're acting like you don't."

Thomas took in a deep sigh, then quickly took aim and fired at a pudgy zombie staggering onto the landing. With one bullet the boy blasted away its foot; with another, he blew off its head as it squirmed on the floor.

This would be a lot tougher on Thomas for the next few moments, as he would have to watch for the creatures and kill them all on his own. His dad had been busy fixing the sight of his hunting rifle since that weird insect flew right into the scope and somehow cracked the glass, perhaps with its stinger or something. When it fell and died, so did several of the shambling things all around them, which graciously bought Roger some time to fit his gun with a new lens. However, the monsters were still approaching from all sides.

It wasn't really helping, either, that his brother Jack had to leave the pair for a few minutes to go to the supermarket in North, due to the fact that his contacts were acting up. There the teen could get some solution, or maybe even some new lenses. Thomas suggested that they all go together, but Jack steadfastly insisted on going himself, and Roger seconded this insistence. It was almost as if the man were throwing his son to the zombies, for all he seemed to care. _Would Daddy protect me if I needed him to, or throw me away too?_ Thomas wondered to himself.

At first, Thomas was hoping that his father would repair his rifle as soon as he could so that the two of them could again double-team the things, perhaps even rid the entire plaza of the creatures with their combined efforts.

Then the boy caught sight of his mother and sister, and figured that his father could take all day with his weapon if he needed to…it would probably be better that way for Mommy anyway.

Thomas wasn't even aware of what Connie and Dakota had to go through to get as far as they did. Narrowly escaping a zombie mob in the family station wagon—thank goodness that Connie remembered Roger kept a spare handgun in the glove, and a rifle or six in the rear of the vehicle. That, in addition to a small gas can and jumpers that Connie dimly remembered, all helped the pair get away at the last possible moment.

Then the cruise through the town that the two endured…more and more of the things down every avenue and alley, and the National Guard—they always seemed a block too far away, since clusters of the monsters kept heading them off from reaching the soldiers. Connie even went so far as to take a rifle, sight a gas pump at a Tornado, and pull the trusty trigger. The resulting blast wiped out a lot of the freaks but didn't bring the military any closer to them.

_They must have somehow scaled the wall near the lot closest to the Maintenance Tunnels,_ Thomas figured. _It's the shortest barrier to get over…then they must have worked their way through to Wonderland. I can't think of anything else. Well, I'm so glad they're here, apparently safe and sound._

The boy admired his mother for her resilience, both physically and emotionally. To come back to Willamette for someone like him, despite the threat of all these seemingly supernatural creatures…to come back for someone like Jack, in the face of all the other environmental hazards and military intervention…

To come back, maybe, for someone like his father…

…Even though his dad did what he did.

Thomas felt that his mother sort of went off half-cocked when she left his father after suspecting that he was having an affair. All she saw was one kiss, she only caught that one transaction between his dad and the other woman. Daddy assured Mom that there was nothing more than that, and even though it seemed like Dad had some things to hide sometimes, he really seemed believable this time. Thomas could tell, in some way that his mother could not.

"Thomas, are you watching for those things?" his father screeched, still crouched over his rifle, breaking the young man out of his reverie.

"Yeah, I got them," Thomas responded, taking aim at a couple of monsters' noggins and breaking them into fragments carefully with his powerful, precise weapon.

But even still, he kept thinking, to betray Mom like that…it was so wrong. After all she did for the entire family. She up and took the station wagon and just left, taking Dakota with her, splitting the Halls in half more or less. Thomas didn't know with whom he should be angrier: his mother, for overreacting so, or his father, for starting this whole mess in the first place.

The boy recalled how it all began. There was the hunting accident, it was…a few months ago—right around the time when he first started handling a rifle like the one he had in his hands right now. There was so much blood, all lost from Thomas' tiny body, on his way to the hospital. An immediate transfusion was necessary, or else the teen would be done for.

Thankfully, before long, in came the donor, his savior: a kind young man about a decade or two older. He strode right in, with a young lady, his fiancée, at his side, and saved the boy and the day.

Not long after the operation was over, Thomas and Roger—the latter of whom was responsible for the accident—made the acquaintance of the generous young man and his woman. The four talked for a while, and all felt enriched from the encounter. Thomas was grateful, and wanted to know the man better with time, wanted to be his friend. And they did become friends, to an extent.

Roger, on the other hand, wanted to know the woman a little better, and wanted to be friends—and more.

And Roger did just that, looking for the lady around the small, smothering neighborhoods of Willamette; swinging by the woman's place of work by "coincidence," which wasn't difficult as they worked in the same industry; buying her a snack, giving her a lift to work every now and then—as an "indirect repayment" for her lover's rescuing his son, so he said.

In time, the man ended up getting as far as one kiss with the woman, whom, to his credit, reciprocated the liplock wholeheartedly—until Connie cried out from the wagon in which she followed her husband.

And the rest was history…or more specifically, the recent past.

Just a week or so ago, really, Thomas told himself. Time would heal the wound, he supposed.

The boy chanced another look over the railing to check on his mother and sister. They were still in there, fending for themselves, seeming to be doing okay. Then Thomas looked over his shoulder, and it appeared that his father was never doing better.

"There," Roger said, lifting his rifle into the air over his head with one hand. "Nothing a little spare couldn't fix, and some quick ingenuity…aaaaand we're back hunting monsters." He turned to his right and aimed at an oncoming creature with frightening reflexes and blew off the top of what passed for the thing's scalp. "Need a bit of help down this way, Thomas."

"Sure, Daddy." Thomas left the railing again to assist his father. It felt good, father and son, taking on the things, just the two of them. For a moment, as they were blasting through the beasts together, Thomas forgot about Connie and Dakota Hall.

"I swear, we've only been gunning for zombies so far…but I'm feeling like I'm going nuts over here," Roger said. "If your mother were here…heh…maybe she'd make a good target. God knows she's wide enough for even an amateur to hit her."

Given his tone, it sounded to Thomas as if Roger spat out those last couple of lines half-jokingly.

Which meant that he was half-serious.

All of a sudden: "Mawmmy! Mawmmy!"

The girl's whine was unmistakable. Nobody moaned for her mother like Dakota did; she could have won an award in Willamette for it. The sound was grating and very irritating. And it was audible, even over the collective cacophony of the zombies.

Roger would doubtlessly make the realization in seconds.

Thomas glanced around desperately; there had to be something that could divert his father's attention. He looked to the stores nearby, for something in the displays, the doorways…

It was them.

Thomas couldn't believe it. Almost as if thinking about the couple brought them into his reality, there stood the man and woman that were going through his mind a minute ago. The man who kept him from croaking, and the woman who inadvertently wooed his father away from his bond with Connie.

An idea then sparked into the kid's mind—though it also impaled him on the horns of a dilemma. First he thought of pointing the lady out to his father, to distract him from possibly seeing Connie and Dakota below.

Then it occurred to Thomas: why not take it one step further?

No; he couldn't. Couldn't do that to the man who snatched him from the jaws of death. After what that man did for him, Thomas wouldn't "repay" him by making him a target for his father.

But then the boy heard it again: "Mawmmy!"

He glanced down and saw that Dakota was peeking her head out of Small Fry, looking left and right to see if the coast was clear to move on. The girl was quickly shunted back into the store by her mother…but the scene still wasn't encouraging for Thomas to see.

"Take that, Connie!"

Thomas spun around in terror to see his father taking aim and firing…

…at another monster—and exploding its head in the usual routine manner.

The boy opened his mouth, unsure of what to say. A moment later he decided to venture, "Dad, did you just say Mom's name?"

"What?" Roger snorted impatiently. "Mom? Oh, no, I said, 'Take that, zombie.' Uhheh." A pause and a bit of nervous laughter. "All this moaning and groaning from the undead…you must have been hearing things funny."

The troubled teen looked at his father waveringly for a second, then nodded and looked at the floor. He had to make a decision, and fast: the woman on the first floor, who gave him life—or the man on the second, who _saved_ his life?

"Mawmmy!"

There wasn't a choice at all in the matter.

Thomas waited another minute, waiting in vain for some divine intervention. He then walked over to where Roger was and lightly tugged at his father's sleeve.

"Look, Dad," he started, pointing at the entrance to a store nearby. "There he is."

"Who, Thomas, I don't need…"

A second later, Roger stopped in his verbally abusive tracks. It _was_ him…and it was her as well. The two had their hands full of fruits and other sorts of foodstuffs, fortifying themselves for survival just as the Halls were doing.

So many emotions and other forces were welling up in Thomas: grief, remorse…just his conscience in general. By some supreme effort he managed to suppress all of it and let his underfed, underused dark side dominate.

"It's all right in front of you, Dad," Thomas continued. "He's right there…the man standing in the path of the woman of your dreams. Are you going to let him stay in your way like that?"

Even as the words were spilling out of the boy's mouth, he couldn't believe what he was doing. But he felt he had to keep on doing it…for Connie and Dakota's sake.

He pushed further. "There's a means to the end you seek…all you have to do is pull the trigger. You want to hunt a human, don't you? You want to take down something more substantial than these…drones out here.

"Well, do it, Dad. Make your son proud. You've always been busting 'em for me about making you proud…well, do the same for your son, for once. Do me proud, Dad. Shoot him. Shoot him, now."

Thomas watched as his father stared, almost catatonically. "Thomas…" was all he could say. Ordinarily the boy would be halfway through a thorough thrashing by this point, courtesy of Father Hall, if he ever tried to goad his Dad like this on any other occasion.

But this was different. In this instance, it was as if Roger's son were doubling for the devil on the man's shoulder. Almost hypnotically, Roger Hall began to raise his rifle.

Thomas continued, this time with a more soothing voice, a tone which he never before employed: "She could be all yours, Dad…you could take her in your arms again, and kiss her…be with her, the way you want to be with her…you could have her, hold her, forever. You could hear her say your name, chant your name…Roger…Roger…Roger…"

The man of the Hall house tightened the grip on his rifle.

"Roger," the young woman said to her lover, the targeted man, meters away at the front of Run Like the Wind. In this context, the word meant "wilco," not a name...and her lover nodded knowingly, as he was fully aware that she uttered the word all the time.

"Okay, so then, grapefruits—check," the man in question, Ross, said, taking the small edible sphere into his hand and tossing it up and down idly. "We have other fruits in the back too, right?"

"Roger," his love, Tonya, once more replied calmly. She grinned at the man she loved. "Yup, with that and some other important food groups, we should have all the essentials we need to hold out…at least till some kind of help comes along."

"Okay, and I have a bat or two in case those things make their way inside here," Ross continued, throwing down the grapefruit and hefting a baseball bat that he got from Kokonutz next door, then watching as Tonya went over a bit closer to the store's exit. He had to be careful, for her, for him…for them to make it through. "Well…it looks like we're going to be okay."

The man paused for a moment, satisfied with the way things were. Then he looked to the foods again and remembered. "Oh yeah, Ton—water, or something else to wash this stuff down with—we have that too, right?"

A beat…then another…an anxious silence as no response issued from Ross's lover.

"Ton?"

Again nothing.

Ross started to walk towards his lover. "Tonya?"

He saw that she was looking out the window at something distinct…but it wasn't the usual horror or disgust that registered on Tonya's face over the past day or so.

"Roger…" she managed…barely.

"Okay, so we're cool…"

He watched Tonya as she shook her head at something. "Ro-Roger…

"Roger?"

Something was up; something wrong. Ross took his lover's side and followed her gaze to the Space Rider landing. "Tonya, what…?

"NO!" he cried, instinctively sidestepping in front of his soulmate.

Hearing his savior's yell snapped Thomas out of his corrupt trance. The boy looked to his right, watching as his father took careful aim at Ross's heart. "Ton…Tonya," he murmured as he readied to fire.

Thomas bit his tongue nearly through. What had he done?

"Dad, no!" he cried, trying to find that same strength that made him so evil, so that he might jump in front of his father's shot. But he failed.

His shout did make Roger stop a second to look at his son, however. Through

giant square glasses, the man eyed his flesh and blood as if sizing up his next target. He opened his mouth to berate the boy once again.

"Thom…AGH!"

Roger's admonition was sharply cut short by a length of wood that struck his shoulder. He looked ahead of him to see his rival lowering his hands and striding right toward him.

Now, Ross was a peaceful man. He didn't like to aggress against others, and just wanted to live a tranquil life with the woman he loved. He didn't want to have to resort to violence.

But right now, he was being threatened…and more importantly, _she_ was being threatened as well. Tonya was in danger—and he couldn't have that.

"Roger," Ross said, starting towards the older hunter-sniper with a tone of disbelief mixed with contempt.

"STAY BACK!" the other man yelled, pointing the barrel of his weapon straight at Ross's heart. "So help me, I'll blow you off your feet where you stand if you come any closer."

"Roger, no…" Tonya pleaded a few feet away. "You can't…"

"I'll do what I please, Tonya!" Roger shouted. "I'm just about to take away what's between us…"

He squinted into the sight and tensed his finger to fire.

"Daddy, NO!"

Roger's rifle jerked downward slightly as Thomas, having finally found the strength to stop what he started, rammed into the man's shoulder. The gunshot still issued from the weapon, but rather than finding fatal purchase in the desired target's chest, the bullet instead struck southward and pierced the right side of Ross' stomach. The shot man, who was heretofore in perfect physical condition, went straight down, hunching over onto the floor in a manner similar to the way Roger hunched over to fix his murderous tool moments ago.

"ROSS!" cried Tonya as she ran to her true love. "No…no…love…" In a swift, adrenalin-inspired motion, she hefted him partway up so that he could sort of stand, and, without thinking of any danger that might have come to her, she began to take him back into the running shoe store. Even with her burden, she found the strength to whisk her head around and shoot Roger the iciest of glares as she carried her man. In the coming hours, she would stand by her one and only real lover, no matter what the cost…even though her passion for Ross would be diluted by the slightest hint of guilt for allowing Roger to take one tiny atom of her heart.

Roger locked eyes with the woman he wished for for only an instant, though, as he then turned to train his rifle upon the forehead of his own son, whom he knocked to the ground an instant after he was jumped. He said nothing this time, no reprimands or chastisements, but aimed his gun as if it were psychically controlling him, demanding the blood of humans to run right up its barrel.

It was a long minute that followed, Roger staring down his own flesh, desperate to fulfill his thirst for bloodshed…Thomas looking back in pure terror, thinking of himself but also of Mommy and Dakota, even now, in the back of his mind.

Roger's trigger finger tensed again.

"Dad?"

The man's killer digit stopped twitching for a second as the familiar voice reverberated through his mind.

Some seconds of pregnant silence.

"Dad?" cut the word through the air once more. Roger turned his gaze from the son on the ground to the son behind him.

"Wh-what's going on?" asked Jack, his rifle lowered at his side, his mind unable to process what he was seeing.

Roger's hawklike look penetrated the other boy for a second…then lowered as the man dropped his rifle to the ground.

"N-nothing, Jack," Roger said, placing his face into his hands. "Nothing…your brother and I… … …

"…just nothing."

Jack walked forward to place his hand on his father's shoulder. Thomas watched the pair from his place on the floor, thanking a higher power that he was not dead… thinking of his mother and sister. While his brother comforted his dad, he crawled over to the Space Rider lead-up railing and looked over again.

The Small Fry's was empty.

Thomas picked himself up in a flash to run to the other side of the landing and looked out.

Thank the Lord.

The woman and child were scampering past the Wonder Jewels, Connie pushing aside yet another monster in their way, Dakota still crying out.

They were at least somewhat safe.

Thomas let himself sigh long and deep, thankful that his father had not discovered them. Even though the female Halls were still waist-deep in zombies and thus in grave danger, they were still relatively better off than they would have been if under Roger's gun.

"Thomas," the boy's father's voice sounded again…though for once it did not ring any rebuke. He turned to look his father straight in the eye as the latter spoke again.

"I…I…"

An apology? That would be a milestone for Daddy.

"I…"

Come on…do it…what are you waiting for?...do it…

"I think we need to move on from here," his father finally managed. "Jack says there are some decent hiding, safety spots in North Plaza, and that maybe we should check them out."

_So maybe Daddy wasn't there yet, couldn't get himself to realize his wrong…might never get there,_ Thomas thought. Of course, in his frightened righteousness the boy didn't consider what came seconds earlier—what, _who_ spurred and egged the man on to get to the state of rage that he was in in the first place.

Instead, his mother and sister charged to the front of his mind again. The Hall men couldn't go North, not with Mommy and Sissy going that way.

"Dad…I'm really kind of hungry," Thomas replied. "Can't we maybe go back that way for something?" He pointed toward the Food Court.

"Thomas, we just came from there, not long ago…and you had like milk and yogurt, and ice pops and…"

"Jack," Roger cut in. The man sniffed, then breathed long and ponderously, taking off his glasses to rub his hand over his eyes. "We can go back there, it's alright."

"But Dad…there's Seon's for food…"

"Jack! Do what I said. Now." Roger trained his laser gaze upon his other son now. "We go back to the Food Court. Then perhaps through the Park again, and maybe towards Entrance. Let's try our luck over that way…we haven't gone there yet."

Thomas grinned inwardly with relief, realizing what his father was doing. If he couldn't be enough of a person to apologize, he could at least let the son he nearly shot and killed have his way for once. _That_ Daddy could manage; it was almost compensation, a consolation prize for Thomas.

"Fine," muttered Jack as the three Halls started their way back towards the tacky Western-themed eateries. Each of them gripped their rifles tightly, watching for wayward creatures as they went.

As Thomas looked to his left passing through, he noticed someone whom _he_ desired, sitting atop the head of a giant pink bunny—with another man.

The kid knew Sally Mills, wanted Sally Mills, from the moment he first saw her. She was several years his senior, but he didn't care. He noticed she was wearing a Ratman t-shirt. Thomas liked Ratman, hadn't seen it yet but was planning to, at least before all this started.

The kid continued to watch the girl as he walked, wondering how the heck she got up on top of the rabbit, wondering what a world it would be with Thomas and Sally Hall living in it.

Then he noticed that the guy huddled next to her was also wearing a Ratman t-shirt.

Thomas's index finger started to itch as it rested on the trigger of his hunting rifle.


	16. Francis and the Hulking Mules

JULY 6, 2007, 12:45PM

"Hello, I'd like to speak with the Service Center Director, or one of the other officers in administration under him. My name's Jessica McCarney."

Jessie twirled the phone cord between her fingers as she dealt with the operator on the other end.

"Yes, Jessica, Jessie, McCarney. I've been a DAO interviewing people for permanent residence petitions and things like that for the past few months. Jessie McC—

"No, not Jesse McCartney. Not the kid with the guitar. McCarney, _Carn_ey…

The young woman's whitebread brow furrowed.

"Yes, I'd like to speak with the Director. He's not available?"

…

"Oh, he's at lunch. It always seems like you people are at lunch when I call…"

…

"Alright, I'll call later. …No, you can't have my autograph. Take care." She slammed down the receiver.

Smartass.

Jessie reclined in her government-issued chair and thought about what she had to do for the day. Ahh…things had slowed down for her and Brad considerably since they transferred out of ICE. Immigration and Customs Enforcement was the name of the agency for which both had worked since they originally started with DHS—it was one of the three main agencies of which the Department of Homeland Security was comprised. They each saw their fair share of action while they were ICE agents—maybe too much, especially in regards to what happened last September in Willamette.

72-plus hours of hair-raising hell, dealing with deadly zombies, traumatized survivors, and a wacked-out terrorist who ended up getting away in the end, in a sense. Just when the good guys had brought the bad man's sister over to their side and had Carlito Keyes cornered, he ended up chickening out and setting a grenade off in his mouth. It was too much for his beloved sibling Isabela to bear when she brought that photojournalist with the complicated face into the hideout and she saw the fleshy mess. None of the bloodbaths anyone had seen that day could compare with what was left of Carlito's corpse.

And what Isabela had told her afterward had really just chilled her to the bone. That…had the woman's brother not taken his own life…he might have tried to take everyone else's in one tremendous explosion, which would have also sent thousands of zombie larva into the atmosphere. The United States would have never known pollution such as that…and matters would have grown exponentially worse from there.

But things were much simpler now, at least for Jessie. After she, Brad, and several others had successfully absconded from the Park View Mall, she had put in a transfer to work for Citizenship and Immigration Services in Denver. So now she was dealing with green cards instead of groaning carcasses, and she was fine with that. Meanwhile, Brad, with whom she grew much closer and had been dating since Willamette, went over to Customs and Border Protection, also in Denver. That agency dealt mostly with inspecting people, packages and other stuff that came into the country, making sure that nothing was suspect or out of the ordinary.

Jessie was happy above all to be close to Brad.

She would have to try to call Nebraska Service Center again later. She flipped through her schedule, looking at the adjustment of status green card appointments she would have for today. The usual range of applicants from all over the place, Asia, Africa, Latin America. One beneficiary's name caught her eye.

Isabela Keyes.

As did the name of her petitioner: Frank West.

Brad brought the best flowers he could find as he pushed through the double doors to Jessie's CIS office building. It would be a pleasant surprise for the little buxom blonde, in addition to the megaluncheon he had planned for them both. Brad thought of himself to be the luckiest man this side of the Mountain Time Zone.

As he waved to the guards near the scanning machines at the entrance, he saw a familiar face, with glasses covering hard-focused eyes.

But it wasn't Jessie.

"Jeff…" Brad walked over to a rather portly man and extended his hand. "You're…Jeff Meyer…aren't you? From the Willamette Mall?"

The man turned his head upon being addressed, but returned Brad's welcome with a quite empty stare. "I…" was all he could say.

"Yeah, it is you," Brad said. He looked closely at Jeff as he reached him, measuring him with a careful gaze. Something then clicked in the back of his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Hopefully his most major anxiety at the moment wasn't about to manifest.

"I…" Jeff repeated. His eyes were glazed over through his glasses, and he sort of looked like he needed to sit down.

"You look kind of…under the weather, Jeff," Brad volunteered, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. He knew that Jeff didn't belong in this building…and it was too much of a coincidence that a random survivor from Park View would be right here, in the same area as him and Jessie. Something was up.

"Why don't I get you something to drink, Jeff. Just stay right here a minute." Brad motioned for the other man to take a seat nearby, and got an officer near the doors to make sure he wouldn't go off anywhere.

Frank felt he lucked out, getting Jessie as the interviewer for him and Isabela. What could be better than to have someone who shared a horrific but unifying experience such as the Park View incident, to make the decision regarding the journalist's wife's future.

"Come on back, Frank," Jessie greeted, propping open the door to the interviewing officers' cubicles. The man noticed that she was wearing that generic, geriatric gray skirt suit that she wore before in Willamette. Thought his heart belonged to Isabela, he simultaneously wished that he could see Jessie wearing clothes like Kay Nelson's someday. Jessie had _way_ too nice a body to waste it on old fart fabrics like what she had on.

Well, he and Isabela still did have to go and visit the two government agents at some point on a personal basis. He and his wife were just so busy, going back to the remains of Santa Cabeza…going to some other villages and countries near there as well, to visit some of Isa's extended family. Brad and Jessie would be the next two on Frank's list, for certain.

"Okay, so…you guys are here today for a green card interview…" Jessie began. "Let me just go through the paperwork to make sure some of the preliminary things are there." She couldn't help but notice that Frank was wearing that same drab, brown homeless person suit he had on in the mall. The man had a decent body—though, in comparison, Brad was a god in that department—and shouldn't be wasting it looking so destitute. Clothes did make the man, after all, and his made him look like a hobo.

Jessie looked over a few more papers and was then satisfied that everything she needed was there. She looked to Frank and Isabela, who were waiting impatiently and rather nervously, the latter in particular.

"Alright! So, I'm going to ask you a few questions, about the lives you have shared these past few months. I take it you guys are married now, and Frank is sponsoring you, Isabela, as his spouse?"

Isabela nodded, but before she could say anything, Frank cut in:

"Yeah, yeah! We tied the knot a few months back, and now she's Isabela Keyes-West. And I guess you could guess where we spent our honeymoon…"

Jessie scrunched her lip. "Sssanta Cabez—"

"NO! KEY WEST! Ha ha," Frank chuckled, grasping his love's hand tightly as she sat next to him. "Get It?!"

"I see," Jessie replied, shaking her head. Frank noticed that she even had those little heart earrings on from the time at the mall as well. God, Brad was so lucky, from what he heard of the pair.

"Okay, well. Let's start with the questions. I'll swear you and Isabela in…"

Over the next several minutes, Jessie presided impartially over the interview, asking several questions that were standard for such interviews. These included:

"How did you meet your husband, Isabela?"

And Isabela composed herself, and responded, "In-in a supermarket. He was really nice, and we really hit it off."

Then:

"Has Frank met any members of your family?"

"Umm…he's met my brother…"

"I meant other than that; I'm sorry, Isabela."

"It's…it's alright. Yes, he's met some cousins of mine from near Santa Cabeza."

Later:

"How does your husband get to work?"

_Uh-oh,_ Isabela thought. Frank did keep an office, even though he was freelance…but how could she explain that he still stole motorcycles and convertibles, and hijacked trucks and humvees, to get where he needed to go?

She thought for a second. _Ah well, it's not as if any of this will matter…in another hour or so._

"He takes…um…public transportation." More accurately, he would take the transportation of the public. But Jessie didn't have to know those details.

And also:

"When was the last time an appliance broke down in your house?"

Well, there was that one time the makeshift generator was busted, the one that produced the temporary retarding solution to Frank's zombification. He had to get a shot basically once a day, like some sort of supernatural intravenous medication. All it took was the purchase of another magnifying glass and a hint of cold spray, and the machine was running like a dream again.

"We had a blender that broke down a few weeks ago. It's fixed now."

After a little while later:

"Good. Well, Isabela, Frank, I think this is going to turn out just fine…Frank, I'm happy to say that…Frank? Frank…"

The man's gaze was lost in between her breasts.

"FRANK!"

"Oh, sorry, sorry," the photojournalist gushed, running his thumb and forefinger across his eyes to shake out the sleepies, eye crud, what have you.

Jessie grimaced at the man in contempt for a second. Those drugs worked way too well on her body…

Jessie was so disappointed, as she was growing up, that she didn't quite develop as fully as did other girls her age. She was a veritable toothpick up into her early twenties, and other factors such as her countenance-obscuring glasses and her dry, dreadful personality had men of all types keeping their distance.

So, lonely and desperate at twenty-four, she decided to turn to steroids.

But these weren't the usual raw-muscle augmentation steroids. No, these were experimental estrogen-enhancement compounds, the kind of black-market-esque top-secret-governmental drugs and things that were developed and tested in small, third-world Latin American countries. Sort of like that which was done in Santa Cabeza.

Jessie remembered taking in the illicit substances and expecting an instantaneous change. But then she ruefully remembered what the person who sold her the steroids told her: it might take a few days. It wouldn't happen all at once right away.

Instead, it ended up happening all at once a few days later.

She remembered she was standing right in front of the door to her apartment, which had a full-length mirror and was open just a crack. She was in her underwear, fixing her hair for the day, both hands poised above her head working through the various strands. Immediately in back of her was her abode's closet, the door to which was left wide open and was bumping a bit against her flat posterior. All of a sudden, while she was almost through straightening a certain section, all ten fingers working through her scalp because she couldn't find her brush…the door in front of her spanged open and the one behind her slammed abruptly shut. It made her jump a little, startled…then she looked down and couldn't see her toes. And she looked behind and couldn't find her heels.

Since then she'd found on several occasions, always third-handedly it seemed, that she was going by some new names…Chesty Jessie, Rear Admirable, Mayor McCleavage, things of that sort. And oh the number of males that began to squirm out of the woodwork.

But she made up her mind: she would save herself for someone who understood her, someone who deserved her. And Brad was that special someone, without a shadow; there was no question.

"So anyway, as I was saying, Frank, Isabela, I…"

"BLEAHHHHH!"

Frank and Jessie shot a collective shocked glance to Isabela as the latter woman lost her lunch all over the CIS officer's desk. All that could be seen of the Santa Cabezan was her long mane of beautiful black hair as she chuffed gaspingly underneath it all.

"Oh God, Isabela…are you alright?" Jessie offered, getting up out of her chair hastily.

Frank put a hand out reassuringly. "It's okay, she does this from time to time…sorry, I should have told you, she sort of has this whole anorexia-bulimia thing. It's nothing that a quick trip to the bathroom can't fix."

"Okay, sure, sure," Jessie replied, pointing to her right. "The restrooms are that way."

Isabela quickly picked herself up and hustled off to the ladies' room, while Frank sat nervously in front of the other woman.

"Yeah…it happens from time to time. I told her not to eat all those churros today…"

"I understand, Frank. She's probably just nervous." She paused. "Can't really blame her for running from a guy with your looks," she added, reprising the one joke she attempted her whole life. Frank didn't laugh then in Willamette, and didn't now; not because the situation right now was serious, but because it just…wasn't that funny.

An instant later, another man burst into the cubicle.

"Jessie!"

"Brad…" The lovers paced anxiously toward one another, then embraced breathlessly. Frank so wished he had his camera with him; in some circles, he would certainly gain points for prestige in shooting a moment such as this.

The newcomer composed himself, then, haltingly: "Thank God you're safe, Jess. I was afraid something might have become of you." He then noticed Frank for the first time. "Ohhhhh _no._"

"Become of me?" Jessie squeaked. "What are you talking about?"

Brad sighed. "Hey Frank," he said to the freelancer. "You're here with _Isabela,_ for her green card interview, I take it?"

Frank nodded. "Yeah…so?"

The Customs agent cleared his throat. "I'm afraid we may have a problem involving your…wife, it seems.

"Lately, CBP personnel have been coming into contact with a lot of people from Central America…Santa Cabezans especially…attempting to smuggle all kinds of explosive contraband into the States…uh, pipe bombs, nail bombs and the like. We have reason to believe that Isabela might be connected to some of these acts of smuggling…and that she might be trying to carry out an act of terrorism on this location as we speak."

Frank bust out laughing. "Oh ho ho…Isabela? My wife? No, Brad…I'm afraid you're wrong on this one. Isa wouldn't be inclined to do something like that. I mean, look at her…she's as clean as a whistle regarding any kind of criminal record…apart from her involvement with Carlito at the mall, of course, but we've had her pardoned for her participation as far as it went, you know that."

Brad eyed a small digital device atop Isabela's personal belongings next to Frank. "Well then I suppose you wouldn't mind if I took a look inside that PDA which I presume is hers, then?"

Frank stared at the man a second. "Go ahead," he replied.

As Brad paged through the device, his face growing more and more weathered with concern by the second, Frank went on. "Look, Brad, Isa's got nothing to do with any recent terrorist activity…she's innocent, the last time we went down to CA—Central America, I mean—she just went and bought a few fruits and vegetables: squash, zucchini, cherries, melons, things like that. She even ate most of the stuff there—she didn't even bring most of it back."

"But she brought back the _cherries_—didn't she, Frank?"

"Well, yeah, some of them."

Brad coursed through Isabela's PDA a bit more, then came to a certain entry and cursed. "DAMN! I knew it."

"What is it, Bradly?" Jessie asked. Girlfriends always had to say their guys' full first names from time to time; it was some kind of way to assert sovereignty, in a sense. Brad's proper first name was spelled without the "E," so it looked more like "studly" than "Stanley" when fully spelled out. Frank winced when he heard Jessie say "Bradly"; he sort of wanted the voluptuous woman, despite Isabela, but he wouldn't have been able to tolerate her calling him "Francis."

Brad looked angrily at nothing for a second, then said, "There's an entry called "Fatal Fats" on here…listing the names of five people from Willamette. You know a Brenton, a…Blackwell, a…Shiner, Frank?"

"Yeah," Frank said. "Hey…yeah, they were the real tubby ones, like, they basically rolled through the vent after me when I saved them. Especially that Ronald kid…what a fat eff he was."

"Well, it looks as if Isabela somehow contacted five fat survivors from the mall and used the Cultist brainwashing book to hypnotize them into acting as mules…God no…she couldn't."

Frank and Jessie looked on, very much impatiently.

"She's made them smuggle in cherry bombs containing zombie larva from Santa Cabeza. It says here that they're each to go to a different restroom on each floor of this building and…expel the bombs…then set them off."

"If those cherry bombs go off, there'll be nowhere in this place to flush," Frank cawed despairingly. "The zombies will be everywhere!"

"Let me see that," Jessie said to Brad regarding the PDA. Her man handed her the machine and she searched it diligently. "Ah, here. It says that Isabela was also planning to flood the fatties' systems with laxatives, then set them loose. If we could take care of the cherry bombs while the survivors' gastric constipation is _still low…_"

"…There's a chance we could stop the explosion," Brad finished for her. He then stormed towards the edge of her cubicle and did this cinematic spin-around-and-point thing that Jessie and Frank thought was the biggest poser move ever. "Let's do it."

Frank followed quickly after Brad and jumped in the elevator with him, while Jessie ran down the hallway to the nearest ladies' room.

"Even though Jessie and I are seasoned government agents," Brad started, "we all know that you have something in you that makes you stronger, faster…better. I still don't believe all those stories you told me after Willamette, what with clowns and cultists and convicts and all sorts of other psychos…after all, as a journalist, you people do tend towards the sensational at times. But I'll trust you to take the brunt of this bomb run nonetheless. Isabela is _your_ wife, after all."

Frank said nothing in return, but did a smug thumbs-up just as he did to Brad and other folks a couple of times in the mall.

"I have to go check on someone else whom I suspected, the second I walked in this place," Brad added. He narrowed his eyes at Frank as he stepped out of the elevator car. "I'm counting on you."

Frank just nodded curtly as Brad set off in another direction on the fourth floor, then rode the elevator three more floors to the first, stepped out, and headed for the mens' room close by. As he hurried, he noticed that the guards at the entrance were now unconscious…Jesus. He also noticed that one of them was sporting a taser on his belt. Frank supposed that the guard would not mind his borrowing it for a moment, so the journalist helped himself before going over to the nearest bathroom.

Inside, he watched as a portly man dressed in a red t-shirt and green baseball cap, looking much like an overgrown child, was approaching one of the stalls.

"Bill," was all the photojournalist said.

The man-kid spun around, an inexplicably glazed over look in his eye. "Uh…" was all he could manage.

"You look like you gained a little weight since I've last seen you…must have been a real picnic," Frank said.

Before Bill could turn back around and do the duty Isabela commissioned him to do, Frank jump kicked the poor pawn, sending him flying back against his targeted toilet. He then laid into Bill with a devastating knee drop in the intestines.

What gushed forth cannot fully be described or printed here, but among the contents was the first of the five cherry bombs. Frank picked up the small explosive, wiped it on Bill's crimson circus tent of a top, and sprinted out of the restroom.

Moments later on the second floor, the muckraking mofo found none other than a hapless familiar flabby face in the facilities.

"Wayne," Frank began, addressing another pair of unreachable eyes, "come on. Reach into the deepest part of your mind and stop this before it's too la…urgh!"

Frank couldn't get out the last word as Wayne plowed into the man, ramming him up against the wall next to the paper towel dispenser. The obese opponent was making unintelligible guttural sounds as he struggled against Frank; not zombie-like sounds, but something else almost as unimaginable. Wayne fought fiercely against the other man, nearly living up to the same name as another warrior on a distant, lost planet. Propping Frank up against a nearby sink, he grabbed the photojournalist's throat and began to squeeze.

"Ugg…" Frank bubbled out. He had no choice at this point; he had to resort to relatively extreme measures. With the last of his orange-juice-endowed might, he fished out the stun gun he found on the first floor and activated it right near Wayne's left ear.

"ARROARGH!" the pudgy ex-survivor bellowed as the taser's kiss took its effect. He fell to the floor and began to convulse, shaking much more intensely than he ever did while pinned down by the Hall family in Entrance Plaza. As he vibrated, the second of the cherry bombs issued from his salivating mouth.

"Rest for now, my heavy friend," Frank said hoarsely, picking up the weapon of ass destruction. He looked to the bathroom mirrors, wishing in vain for a secret passage to warp him to the next floor. Where was Greg Simpson when he needed him? Frank then paced out of the restroom and set his sights on the third floor.

In the powder area of that level, he couldn't help but groan in despair. He saw Ronald, and the behemoth was near a stall…but unfortunately he was exiting rather than entering. Was Frank too late?

"No no no no NO!" Frank yelled, sprinting full out towards the gluttonous goliath, somehow pushing him aside. The enormous entranced manboy attacked, and Frank instantly responded with a roundhouse kick that floored the round house of a human. The hardened hero then ran up and added 53,594 karate chops into just as many of Ronald's chins for good measure.

Shaking his head, Frank then walked uneasily to the hell-smelling stall and looked into the bowels of the bowl before him. Through the depths he saw the desired third cherry bomb, and, taking the deepest breath he ever took, he reached in.

Brad jogged across the fourth floor to the designated room where suspicious aliens would be detained and questioned. He had security take Jeff there while the overweight man was drinking the seltzer Brad gave him.

"Of all the…" Brad was exasperated to see several guards sprawled out all over the place in the room…and no Jeff in sight. Whatever kind of punch Isabela fed these fat folks in "conditioning" them—in addition to the effects of the brainwashing book—it must have imbued them with some sort of SuperWillamettan strength. Surmising that Jeff took off for the nearest restroom, Brad hoofed his way in that direction.

To be sure, the cherry bomb mule was indeed in the little boys' room, stepping towards the closest throne, intent on carrying out Isabela's diabolical plot. Brad walked up to Jeff and spun him around, not surprised at all to see the same glassy, glazed look on the man's face.

"Gurggurggurg," managed the mesmerized Meyer. He was pretty much foaming by this juncture.

"All right, Jeff," said Brad, "I suppose you'd like to know why you're all so…sudsy right about now."

"Gurggurg…"

The Customs agent let himself smile a second, satisfied with the surreptitiousness with which he previously handled the whole situation.

"As you may have guessed, that wasn't just ordinary seltzer I gave you, downstairs."

Jeff just kept looking emptily at Brad.

"Nope," Brad went on. "It was sparkling carbonation mixed with…how do they call it…?"

Suddenly Jeff pitched over, gagging. Seconds later he was spewing concussive, destructive halitosis all over the place that was breaking up the bathroom tile beneath him.

"Ahh, yes. Spitfire, that's it."

The next thing that came out of Jeff's mouth was the fourth cherry bomb. Brad walked up, propped his foot up against the other man's face, and pushed, so that Jeff was facing away from him. The agent then scooped up the small explosive and ran.

Jessie was always kind of mad at herself for not getting more into the confrontations that occurred in Willamette. She was all set to plunge into a good old-fashioned firefight with that terrorist, when don't you know, there was that whole tiny ankle injury that put her out of action. Because of that, she had to watch Brad stagger in later on, after the second bout with the fiend, all shot and…_sick_, somehow. Brad ran a fever from absorbing a bullet; Jessie had never seen or heard of that before, but then, her man was otherworldly to her, much more than the average guy, and perhaps there was some sort of inexplicable method to the madness of his divine physiology.

_Never mind all that at the moment,_ the young lady thought to herself as she sped into the fifth floor ladies' room. _Now's my chance to shine…finally some of the action I never experienced with ICE._

In spite of her thirst for a thrill, Jessie backpedaled a second when she spied the humongous humanoid before her. The woman she saw looming ahead looked the same as she did back at the Park View Mall. She still had those huge round glasses that rivaled her own. She still had the arms, torso, and haircut of a mid-1980's John Byrne-rendered Incredible Hulk. And that fact that Natalie Meyer was still wearing that green blouse didn't help to efface the whole gamma-ray giant image either.

"You're headed for that stall over there, aren't you Mrs. Meyer?" Jessie asked, sort of rhetorically. "I can't let a civilian do that in this instance. It's against… restroom regulations."

Natalie responded only with a roar that shook the entire planet. Then bifocaled beast charged head-on at bifocaled beauty.

The young CIS agent's enhanced bust admittedly absorbed the brunt of the impact, but she still hurt horribly as she was slammed into the wall opposite the stalls.

Natalie moved in with a fatal haymaker, which Jessie ducked at the last second. The exquisite ceramic of bathroom tile soared into the sanitary air as the older woman's fist crunched into the wall.

"HUR HUR HUR," the musclebound middle-aged woman lamented, still whining after all this time and despite her trance. She hunched down, picked up poor Jessie, and swung her stacked body, chucking her against the side of the stall closest to the exit. Jessie's glasses flew off upon impact, bringing her perpetual all-purpose smirk into full view.

Before the bookish vixen could do anything to help herself, Natalie stalked over, hefted the lady to her feet, and wrapped her weight-supplement-inspired arms around Jessie in a tight bear hug. Stifled and suffocating, the agent did all she could just to take in a breath. With Natalie's unfathomable might, she was going to be broken in half in a matter of seconds.

Jessie closed her eyes against the pressure. When the lids spread open again, there was not the beautiful green of her irises, but rather a plain, milky white. An instant later, the eyes closed again, and upon opening, registered a deep red.

Natalie's grizzly grip was abruptly, irretrievably broken as Jessie's Willamettan alter ego came to the fore.

The now altered beast that was Jessie stared through the other combatant with a look of the flushest crimson. She then lunged forward at Natalie's vast, exposed throat. The massive Meyer brought her arms up instinctively, trying desperately to fend off the seemingly undead creature before her. Through the conflict of arms, Jessie's head was dashing in and out, trying to steal a bite here, then there.

The struggle continued for about another minute, then: "Jessie?"

The transformed tower of tits turned upon hearing her name, fixing her cerise gaze upon the man she loved in human form. Brad took out his pistol and approached the pair slowly, knowing full well that his lover could get like this at certain times of the month.

"Jess…it's okay, I'm here," he started. "Calm down…settle down, okay, baby?"

The red eyes that met him began to recede in hue, and the zombified babe relaxed her grip on the other woman. By the time Jessie ambled to the far end of the restroom and turned around, fixing her brilliant green peepers on the man she loved, said man had already somersault kicked Natalie Meyer and hammer thrown her into the mirror nearby. He then maneuvered behind her, and with unbelievably strong thrusts, heimliched the fifth cherry bomb out of the woman. The bovine sounds that Natalie emitted upon this assault reminded Jessie of her home in the Midwest.

As Brad gathered the fifth explosive, he looked at his woman lovingly. They ran to one another and engaged in the most passionate kiss.

"Brad…I love you…"

"I love you too, Jessie. I always have and always will."

Jessie sighed a deep breath of relief. "I've got to get my glasses."

"Yeah, they're over there." Brad pointed to a corner of the restroom.

As Jessie went to fetch her third and fourth eyes, she said, "Natalie's out for the count, it seems. Did you get any other bombs?"

"Yeah, I got one on the floor below, and Frank's got the other three…I hope, anyway."

"So we're finished here, then." Jessie fixed her smirk on her soulmate. Brad adored the woman—and what man wouldn't—but that damn cryptic look she always had on her face made her the Norm MacDonald of the female gender.

"I think we're finished here, yes."

"YOU'RE FINISHED!" a third voice boomed behind them.

But Isabela's exclamation, as she alighted into the bathroom on her motorcycle, didn't confirm that the other two were done…merely that they would be dead.

Brad pushed his lover out of the way as the killer Keyes rode straight towards them. The cycle's front wheel struck the man in the shin as he attempted to avoid the oncoming vehicle. "AGH!" Brad cried out, tumbling to the tiled floor.

"Bradly!" Jessie shouted. She ran over to her man as Isabela continued to ride around the bathroom on her bike, menacing the agents. The blonde with her body in bloom crouched down and took Brad's pistol. She then raised it and aimed at Isabela.

In turn, the Santa Cabezan pulled out her own handgun and pointed it at Jessie.

Each fired her weapon simultaneously. Fortunately, fate was smiling down upon the good guys, and Isabela's shot missed while Jessie's scored across the biker chica's upper right arm.

Now it was Isabela's turn to go "AGH!", and indeed she did. A second later, however, she pulled out a grenade and bit off the pin.

"You think those cherry bombs were bad," she said. "I'll give you a real bang. TAKE THIS!"

Isabela then threw the explosive, which landed at Jessie's feet, and started to turn her bike around to face the bathroom exit. Without any regard to the explosive consequences, Jessie quickly picked up the grenade, ran up to Isabela, and shoved the thing down the back of her hot black pants. Jessie then jumped away to safety.

BOOM

The sultry Santa Cabezan was thrown forward off her motorcycle and out of the war zone that was the USCIS fifth floor restroom. By the time Jessie helped Brad up and hobbled him over to the hallway, Isabela was almost out of sight…but still slightly visible as she pounded through the door to the building's stairs.

"Damn," said Brad. "I wish there were some way…"

"There is," cut in Frank, running past the pair as he came out of the elevator nearby, also spying his spouse entering the stairwell. "I'll get her; leave it to me. She _is_ my wife after all."

On the blustery rooftop of the immigration office building, Isabela looked all around. She was out of options, and was losing strength by the second. She clenched her hands in frustration: there was nowhere to run, she had the same shot in the arm her brother gave her back in Willamette, and God was her ass aching. She could take a grenade blast better than her brother could, because of all of the…natural insulation that there was, in her gluteal region.

"Isa!"

She spun around to face Frank, then whipped out a small remote control device.

"Don't come any closer!" she said, holding the remote out in front of her shakily. "Even if you managed to get all five bombs, I'll detonate them all with a push of this button. Don't make me do it, Frank."

"Isabela," Frank replied, "you and I both know those bombs wouldn't be effective unless they went off in the toilets. The situation is secured now; you're done for."

"I don't need a sewage system to put my plan into action," the sexy Santa Cabezan shot back. "I can still take this building with me…just try me, Frank!"

"Isa, honey…why are you doing this? Why do you want to continue what Carlito was doing back in Willamette? I know you might be upset about his death, but don't you think this is a little…extreme?"

"Don't you try to talk to me about extreme, Frank," Isabela spat. "All the 'extreme' measures I went to to implement my scheme…marrying you, the fugliest photojournalist on Earth, so that I could get close enough to federal American property to blow it sky high…_feigning_ anorexia-bulimia all these weeks and months so that I could create a diversion at the green card interview…you think my cherry bomb mules' insides have been screwed up?

"It's _your_ fault that I had to go through all this! It's _your_ fault that Carrrrrr-li-to is dead!"

Frank always hated how Isabela over-accented her brother's name.

"It's YOUR fault that I had to spend an hour a day mixing your zombification-retard drink for you these past few months! It's YOUR fault that I'm fat!"

The jaunty journalist realized that his love was now just raving. Her eyes were closed and tears were streaming down her lovely cheeks, her attention was now away from her remote control.

Frank took advantage and walked right up to his wife.

"It's YOUR fau—_awwwww_…"

Isabela buckled, then collapsed as the full force of Frank's kick into the space between her legs took effect.

"It's your fault that I can't give any woman children, after that kick you gave me outside of Seon's," Frank said. "So now you know how that feels…and I guess you can blame me for that as well."

Settling into a prone position on her back, Isabela looked up at the blue sky above, defeated, as Jessie and Brad joined her husband on the roof. The kick Frank delivered into the area of her ovaries was so strong that she was starting to lose consciousness. The last thing she saw before passing out was Jessie's magnificent rack,

bobbing in the breeze underneath her antique skirt suit's blouse.

"Pachamammaries," she uttered.

"Well, I suppose it's time for that 'nice little chat' you mentioned back in the mall, Frank," Jessie said, still on the rooftop as Brad was slapping handcuffs on the most recent threatening Keyes. "Let's you and I, and Brad if that's alright, go talk downstairs."

Jessie and Brad then spent the next half-hour or so explaining to Frank that Isabela would be detained and prosecuted for terrorist acts, and that, well, she wouldn't exactly be getting a green card today. Frank looked sort of dejected…though not entirely.

"I'm sorry, Frank," said Jessie as she saw the man looking at the floor. "You know the history of Santa Cabeza and all that happened there…I guess she just…couldn't leave it behind."

"It'll be okay, big guy," Brad added. "It'll just take a little time, that's all."

Frank gazed at the floor for another second, then looked up and shrugged. "Oh well," was all he said, sheepishly.

Jessie and Brad just looked at one another, perplexed.

Ten minutes later, Frank bade goodbye to his DHS buddies—after scheduling a nice dinner with the pair for the coming weekend, to catch up—and started towards his car, a shiny red convertible, the title to which was not in his name, of course.

As he walked, he took out a small black notebook containing the names of several young women whom he encountered at the Park View Mall.

"Well, let's see…Cheryl Jones…nah, she was too much of a floozy. That whole 'request' thing she did with the photographs…I'll pass on that glass.

"Kay Nelson…hmm, she was a real looker. I suppose she wouldn't mind spending a honeymoon in Key West as the new Kay West? Ahh, on second thought she was a skank…nevermind.

"Hmm…" he found another name who appeared rather appealing. Yes; she was perfect. "_She_ could do it…for me…"

Satisfied, Frank put his black book away, climbed into the stolen car, and drove off.


	17. Absconding from Adolescent Aaron

SEPTEMBER 19TH, 3:00PM

The second that Jolie saw in Aaron's hands the frilly, pastel blouse, three sizes too large for her but just his size, she knew she had to get out. She was now running through the open outdoors of Al Fresca Plaza, dodging monsters here and there, daring to push a couple out of her way as she went. Even these things were less frightening than her former fiancé at the moment.

"JOLIE!" called her ex-"man" from Weber's Garments. She didn't even turn around to see whether he was being mobbed by zombies. She just didn't care anymore.

"JOLIE!" called her best friend Rachel, who was struggling to survive a few feet away from her. She was indeed being mobbed, and needed help now.

Jolie scooped up a small wooden fragment of a fence and ran to her same-sex soulmate.

Rachel warned her before that she should be careful of her feelings, engage a man out of love, not out of pity. And the smart, sassy Chinese woman fell exactly into that pitfall when she first met Aaron Swoop.

She remembered it well. They were both at Flexin', which was also in Al Fresca; she was doing the treadmill while he was benching ten pound dumbbells. Between sets the "man" had been watching her, her legs, her arms, her hips, as she worked the unending rubber track. Aaron gaped and gawked until he stumbled on a small life cycle and literally fell head over heels. Though Jolie saw through the nearby window's reflection that the guy was eyeballing her, and thought for an instant about running off the treadmill and out the electric doors, she instead gave into her compassionate side and helped the poor sap.

"Are you alright, sir?" she asked, to the fumbling figure on the floor.

"Yeah…I'll be okay as soon as I find my feet…" he gazed directly into her eyes, "and my heart."

Despite this trite, awkward line, Jolie fell hard. It had been at least eighteen months since she even had had a date, let alone gotten any further with a man. Although she was a real striver, an overachiever with her job as a chemist for Parasol—a subsidiary of the infamous Umbrella Corporation—she was also a sucker for goofy guys and nincompoops, people who could take her mind off of her intense work and take her away into their own foolish worlds.

Aaron was perfect for this part.

The "man" was only twenty—eight years younger than her!—but he was an up-and-coming entrepreneur, along with his best friend Burt Thompson. They were starting up their own science/technology-and-other-articles compilation website, called Yes, it was as much a ripoff of Digg as Scour or Aimster/Madster was of Napster, but it couldn't hurt to get in on that action; little kids, basically, were making millions and putting hardworking doctors, teachers, lawyers etc to shame in terms of salaries. Jolie remembered doing tennis camp as a teen, not searching for venture capital for a dotcom. But Burt and Aaron, despite their drab, schmoe-ish appearances, were about to take the internet universe by storm.

And so, as Jolie would put it, inspiring Rachel's eyes to roll, Aaron had "Swooped" her off her feet. Days later Rachel gave in too, to Burt when Jolie introduced them; and now they were a fine pair of cradle-robbing women.

But Jolie began to wonder, not long into her relationship, as to whether she had made a good choice. Aaron could be a bit _too_ goofy at times, and not looking out for her and their bond at large. Even literally, sometimes, he was not looking.

She remembered one time, on the way to a double-date at Chris' Fine Foods in the Food Court, how she was going on about what schools they should send their future children to—there were some nice private institutions just outside of Willamette—and he was busy focusing on the image of a woman on a Casual Gals poster. Just staring away, his eyes oozing loserish looks as he admired the picture's figure. With a real flesh-and-blood woman at his side, this guy was admiring a representation that did not exist in his reality. It was as pitiful as worshipping a character in a video game and wishing that she were your wife.

When the foursome set into the restaurant, they stood a while at the wine bar before sitting down. Burt knew Chris Hines at the counter, and that was cool because he managed to get them a discount on a nice bottle of Royal, a good year to boot. Well, three out of the four were going to swill the import; Aaron would be happy over one the end with his orange juice instead. Chris went on an on a little about how taxes in Willamette were being raised for small businesses, and how establishment owners such as himself and Josh Mannings Sr. and Jr., over at Josh's Jewels in Paradise, were really starting to feel it financially. Of course, entrepreneurs like Burt and Aaron didn't have to deal with this trifling matter, so they listened and lended sympathy, but not empathy.

Then along came another couple of guys, who crashed in on the four's tete-a-tete.

"Excuse us, ladies, gents," said the taller of the two as he pardoned his way to the bar, wearing rough-looking flannel that emasculated Burt's quasi-Hawaiian shirt. "That Royal looks real nice…think I'll have a glass as well."

"Oh, it's a great year," commented Rachel. "You should definitely try."

"Yeah, I like to fancy myself a bit of a drink every now and then," the man replied, completely disregarding poor Burt. It wasn't as if the entrepreneur could really do anything, physically, anyway; it wasn't as if he ever won a fight in which he participated. "My name's Brian…Brian Reynolds." He extended his hand.

"Ohh…Rachel," the woman responded. She took his hand into hers, but then said, quickly and loyally, "I'm here with my boyfriend Burt." She could be stunned and stymied, but she was no ho.

"I see. Hello, Burt…Brian," the man said to Rachel's guy, affably enough.

_Reynolds, huh?_ Rachel thought to herself as Burt and Brian began to talk and compete. _Part of what drew me to Burt was the fact that he shared the same name as my dream man…the Boogie Nights Stroker Ace himself. But this guy also shares Stroker's name…and he's manly like him, not scrawny like my little toddler Thompson over there._

"Yeah, I'm into wine too," said a voice behind Jolie a couple of feet away. She turned to view Brian's incoming companion, a small gnomish guy with his hair obscured by what looked like a giant black sock. "My name's Todd Mendell." He extended his pudgy hand towards the young woman.

"Aaron Swoop," Jolie's man interposed, standing between the two. "We're just here to have a quick drink, then sit down."

"Aaron…" Jolie started, placing a firm hand on her boyfriend's forearm. This wasn't necessary; they were all just talking.

"I see," said Todd, glancing over at Aaron's OJ. "Wouldn't want to get in the way of your, eh, Vitamin C there."

Jolie fixed a flushed look of contempt at her "man." "Tell me, Todd," she said to the newcoming, miniature person, "what do you do…?" Meanwhile, Aaron shook his head, flustered, and returned to his drink.

As Jolie spoke with the guy, learning about his blue-collar exploits, she thought to herself. _Hmm, Mendell…named like that scientist with the genetics. I wonder what the size of this guy's Punnett Squares must be._

A few more excruciating minutes later, and the interloping pair of strangers were ready to set off on their way. They were gentlemen enough not to ask for numbers…not that Burt and Aaron could do something to prevent it, if it came about.

"This was a good wine, Rachel," Brian said.

"Yes…an import, and it's very, ah…" the woman let her breath and her breasts rise as she inhaled a second, "…smooth."

Brian took all this in, triumphantly. He then turned and gave a hearty handshake to Burt, which almost broke the man's hand. Stepping away from the bar, he tapped Aaron's shoulder and pointed to the floor. "Dropped your straw, boss." He motioned for Todd to come along, and the minuscule Igor obeyed.

As Aaron picked up the plastic implement from the ground, which he let slip from his drink while watching his woman talk to that dinky dwarf, Jolie recalled the reason her boyfriend wasn't "drinking" drinking with them.

It was a small party between friends, just a few weeks back—Labor Day weekend. The four were there, and just a few more; Aaron had a few glasses of Boston in him and was feeling a bit more than jovial. The calm before the storm was when he walked up to her and whispered, soft yet slurred:

"You must be named Jolie 'cause you're sexy like Angelina."

In the course of the next minute there was the progression of the pacing…and then the skipping…and then the leaping around.

"JO-LIE!!! YOU'RE AN-GEL-INA JO-LIE!!! I'M DATING AN-GEL-INA JO-LIE!!!"

Burt and Rachel tried to suppress the boy's jocose tirade, but it was to no avail.

"DON'T YOU SEE?! YOU'RE AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE! YOU'RE AN ANGEL IN A JOLIE! YOU'RE ANGEL-IN-A-JO-LIE!!! WOO!!"

He grabbed Burt's perpetual hat off his head and shoved it over his own eyes.

"WOO!!"

Aaron then threw the cap back to his buddy, grabbed a lampshade, and donned that instead.

"WOO!!"

And on and on.

And now said "Angelina" was coursing through Al Fresca, whapping an undead woman in the head with the piece of fence, grabbing her best friend by the hand and running towards a turned over bench.

"Look," Jolie pointed, to a throng of zombies before them. "We can clothesline 'em with this…come on."

Rachel nodded, and each woman picked up an end of the wooden furniture. With a throaty double yell, they ran towards the crowd before them and miraculously knocked them all over with the brute force of the bench.

"Aaron's bicycle is still over there," Jolie shouted, over the voicing of vampiric zombies. "We can both get on and speed things up a bit."

"Are you crazy? We can't both fit on that thing…"

"Rachel, I'll ride the handlebars; Aaron always did that with me before. You can sit on the seat. Hurry!"

As Jolie raced toward the bicycle, not checking on her friend if she was actually following right behind, she remembered how much Aaron cherished the pedaled transport.

"It's 18 speeds of justice!" he would say to anybody who asked, which was generally nobody. But he volunteered it to somebody that time at Chris', another guy who came to chat at the bar with the four…well, really two of the four, anyway. "My most prized possession—it'll take your bike down in seconds flat."

"I…I wasn't referring to that kind of bike," replied his kind-of-fauxhawked leatherbound conversant. "I meant the kind that has engines…not the kind that has…heh…speeds."

Jolie ignored her fiance's idiocy and concentrated on the next newcomer. He posed a bit, and she wondered if his last name, Styles, was just part of that pose—_I mean, come on,_ she thought, _the last time I heard of a guy named 'Styles' was in Teen Wolf. And that was make-pretend._

But Brett seemed nice. Laid back, with his "uh-huhs" that Aaron could never emulate, even with any sort of latent adolescence, which he desperately required.

"So…what are you boys looking for…here?" Jolie ventured, in her best vamp voice.

"Eh…Jonathan and I are fixin' to get ourselves a couple a those juicy steaks this place touts about. Word is that the cuts here, at this 'Chris,' are better'n those at Ruth's Chris."

Aaron thought his head would explode. What the hell did this lowlife know about Ruth's Chris?

Not that the "man" knew anything himself anyway…being the vegan that he was.

"Ahh…my fiancé, he doesn't eat meat," said Jolie.

"Well, that's something," huffed Brett. "You gotta get some protein on those bones at some point, boy! Puts hair on your chest."

"My chest is just fine, thank you," Aaron replied. Brett didn't say anything at first, noticing instead in his peripherals that Jolie could use some chest enhancement herself, while the bird his buddy was talking to didn't need any such boost to the bust. _Ahh, Brett Styles, you're ever the wingman…_

"Uh huh," he said a moment later, finally. "Well, old Jonny boy and myself better get to sittin' down…my stomach is growlin' up at me somethin' fierce."

"Yeah…that's what happens when you want to trip a trip to the meat market," Aaron said under his breath, out of the biker's earshot but within that of his betrothed.

Jolie spun around and punched him in the shoulder. "Ahh…what?!"

"Act your age and not your intelligence quotient," she snapped. "Brett was cool and fun…which is more than I can say for you right now."

Aaron opened his mouth to talk back, but he was cut off by the brewing beef between the other two men nearby.

"I don't know a lot about spackling and welding and crap because I'm not some backwards blue collar like you, alright?" spat Burt, heatedly.

"All guys who consider themselves 'men' know how to do simple things like that, Burty," Jonathan shot back. "It's so easy, your little prepubescent playmate over there with the straw could do it."

"Hey, leave my buddy Aaron out of this."

"Boys!" Rachel interrupted, placing a hand on each man's collarbone.

"It's nothing to get worked up about, honey," said Jonathan quickly. "We know each other from way back…just playin' around a bit, is all." He gave Burt a sly grin, which the other man sheepishly tried to copy, and failed to do. Burt did know Jonathan from a while back, but the latter was always trying to block the former during times out with the ladies. Jonathan didn't give a care about Rachel—though she was kind of a nice, curvy drink of water—he just wanted to break 'em for his old acquaintance. Besides, he'd had his eye on Lady Laurent for a while, and knew Brett probably did too…even though Alyssa never did so much as flirt with either of them and always spoke of wanting to marry a writer.

"Well, at least I don't go around wearing stuff from the local Army/Navy, Jonathan," said Burt. "You have a matching field jacket for that camouflage t-shirt?...you could probably get a decent discount, being the buzzcut bum that you are."

"The military runs strong in our family, son," replied Jonathan, even though he never even enlisted, much less registered. "And speaking of family…at least I'm not the son of a rabid anti-video-game-attorney-jackass…Burt _Thompson_."

"Alright, alright…" was all Burt could say as Jonathan stood there a moment longer, drinking in his imminent victory. Burt tried his hardest but could come up with nothing else to say; the other man had him. Jonathan nodded for Brett to come along, and the two went to sit down by the window.

"He's just a big goofball, Jonathan is," Burt said to his woman. Rachel watched as the two man's men went over to their table, and looked lustily at the fatigue-frocked one with whom Burt lost the argument.

"Right," Rachel said vacantly.

Burt looked at his girlfriend for a few seconds, insecure and unsure of what to say next. Then, finally: "Why don't we go sit down, ourselves?"

"…Sounds kosher to me, Burt. Let's go. Jolie?" Rachel looked over to her best friend, in an attempt to wave her over to the tables…but it looked like the Chinese chemist had her hands full with yet another admirer, much to Mr. Swoop's chagrin.

"Ahh…I can't let you ladies sit down just yet," said the silky, suave, snappy dresser standing between the fiancés over on the end. "It's custom, where I come from, to, ah…knock back a few more, as you Americans say, before setting down to eat."

"Is that right, Carlo?" asked Jolie, flashing the starriest look in the universe to the latest Chris' guest.

"It's Carlito. And yesss…" the dapper man continued, absorbing the hapless woman's attention with his warm, irresistible allure, "we Santa Cabezans like to drink. Sometimes all we do is drink, and drink, and drink…so many discarded flasks of vino growing in number…"

Jolie was speechless. Now _this_ was a man.

An instant of euphoric Elysium existed in the woman's mind as she imagined this Latino interloper—which in some reality should be her Latin lover—caring and caressing her, his hands coursing the scape of her skin, her eyes engaged with hers over the course of an overnight. Their bodies communicating, consuming…

"Sounds like you guys hit the bottle pretty hard," Aaron cut in, completely killing Jolie's reverie.

"Well, we moderate it with…other activities," returned the debonair foreigner. "Some drink, but then some dance…a cruise around the village or into the city in my… chariot…and some things in between." Carlito conveyed a furtive glance to Jolie that instantly melted her through.

"Do you…do you have a…ride…here?" she could barely manage, even in her best throaty voice.

"I do, Jolie. A lavish cherry convertible, vast and voluminous…enough space to do…certain things, inside. We Keyeses don't skimp on such…details."

"W-wow."

"It's smooth and sleek, the best ride you'd ever take. I'd suggest you come try sometime…though I know you are…previously engaged."

"It's noth…oh…yeah…"

Aaron again was about to combust spontaneously…but something about this swinger in particular made him pause. Though he was pretty skinny, and not too imposing in size, something about this Carlito made him come off like a real threat. But he couldn't put his childish finger on what it was.

"The name again is Carlito…Carlito Keyes," the man said, the spiciest glint in his eye. He then leaned in close to whisper in Jolie's ear—for once, not someone soft and slurred, as she was used to. "I'm all about the drive, with the ladies…my…automobile…drives long and hard. My friends don't call me…'Car Keys'…for nothing."

"Ohhhh…" Jolie whispered back, her eyes shut, her mouth pursed as if ready to devour his lips passionately.

At last, to Aaron's divine release, Rachel strolled over to extinguish the situation. "Jolie…I think we should be sitting down by about now."

The addressed woman continued to stare into Carlito's sepia ocean of iris, like the victim of a vampire with an unbreakable gaze. Rachel almost had to literally pull her friend away from the situation to get her to sit down. As Jolie was led away by her familiars, she looked back at the charming, polished operator who succeeded in seducing her. She decided that she would stalk all of Willamette to find that convertible, once she got out range of Aaron, by now her reprehensible…friend/boy.

"Thanks, Rachel," said Aaron to the other woman, rather shakily. "I-I'll getcha back." He uttered this last phrase just as any overweight survivor would to a brazen photojournalist hours later—the same empty, ineffective promise incapable of ever being fulfilled.

"Don't worry about it," said Rachel. "Let's just…sit down." She looked again at Jonathan, and thought of Brian as well, as she retired to the table alongside Burt.

It was on one sunny afternoon in late September, the 19th to be exact, that Jolie and her best friend decided to go shopping in Al Fresca Plaza. They both agreed on Weber's Garments as their favorite place to go; after all, it started with a "W" like "Wu" and it kind of rhymed, at least vowel-wise, with "Decker."

"Oh look, there's that Riverfield Jewelry place," Rachel said as the two worked their way through so many warm-blooded, healthy humans. "Didn't Aaron get your ring there?"

"Yes…sigh yes he did." Riverfield was known to be the bottom of the barrel in terms of that particular kind of ware in Willamette. The virtual jeweler's row in Entrance Plaza was far superior—Marriage Makers and the Manning place in Paradise were alright as well, still better than Riverfield. Aaron was a gazillionaire in the making, but wasn't good to his girl the way he should have been. Jolie pursed her lips in contempt at the mere thought of it.

Did she really want to become Jolie Wu-Swoop?

"Come on, Aaron, put that down."

"No. Burt, I kind of like this…I've kind of…been into it, lately." Aaron held the large blouse in his unhairy hands with some degree of affection. Yep, female clothing just fit so…comfortably on his frame, as of late.

"You know, if the girls came in here right this second…"

"The girls? Come on, Burt, you know they're more Entrancers than Al Frescans. I mean, yeah, this might be their favorite store, but the chances of them coming he…

GASP

"Umm…"

Four female eyes set stares of surprise upon two very unfortunate young men who were about to become single once again—as almost always.

"Jolie…I can explain…"

No words came from the woman's mouth at first. She just stood there, trying to process the image before her, partly wishing her brain hadn't engaged it in the first place.

"This isn't what it looks like…" attempted Aaron, once more with increased pathetic feeling.

"And what is it supposed to look like, Aaron?" Jolie finally gushed out. She was beyond aghast. "What is this supposed to be?"

"I…I…"

Burt stood by, looking at his best friend to try and find some way to save him, to escort him back to a security area of safe relationshiphood. But Aaron was beyond saving.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

Suddenly all four exes-to-be shot glances towards the outdoors. Burt ran over and took a couple of steps outside to see some shoppers collapsing and writhing on the ground, and other…figures…spilling over the rooftops of the stores, plopping and dropping in, their flesh bizarre shades of gray, puce, and other unpleasant hues.

"What the hell is this?" the guy thought aloud to himself. He took in the sight a bit longer, then dashed back in. "Guys…something's going on out there…something really wrong. We might need to get out of here, real quick…"

"Uh-uh, no way," Rachel cut in, as other Weber's shoppers sprinted past her in fright. "Jolie's settling this with Aaron, right here, right now.

"And you and I, mister, have a few words of our own to discuss as well. I don't suppose you were here to look at a few blouses and skirts yourself…?"

In the ensuing moments, tens, then hundreds of unlucky Willamettans lost their lives…and two overgrown boys lost their girlfriends. Not because they were dead, but because they were done with their wayward relations.

"Jolie, you can't do this! We're going to get married!" squeaked Aaron.

"_Were_ going to get married…till I came to what little sense I had to go out with you in the first place." Jolie was having trouble relating her rejoinders over the milling of undead and the screams of nearly-dead…but she was going to say everything she needed to say, and end this now.

"You know, you…you don't know what you'll be missing," Aaron whined. "I would have lavished you with all sorts of gifts, and love…"

"You wouldn't have loved me as much as, say, that girl in the Casual Gals poster."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Aaron was exasperated, and threw his hands up in frustration as other, disembodied hands flopped into the air outside.

By this point, Rachel had broken up with Burt, and was heading for the threshold out to Al Fresca, despite the masses of monsters around them. Anything would be better, less horrifying, than staying in that store with two hermaphrodites trying on women's wear. Jolie went over to her friend at the doorway.

"You know, this is no great loss. No loss at all," kvetched Aaron with the last of his argumentative strength. "You only wanted me for my money anyways…_and_ you were bad in bed."

"Bad in bed? Look, Aaron, as far as I'm concerned, between myself, _any_ future girlfriends you may have—which is highly _doubtful_—and your other past girlfriend—which was _inflatable_—you can remember me as the woman who didn't fake it."

Aaron just looked at his now former girlfriend.

"Goodbye. Let's go." Jolie pumped her friend's shoulder with her hand as she stepped over a corpse to go outside. Rachel most willingly followed, despite unmanly protests from behind her.

Jolie was now jogging away from the broken bicycle by the wall, and looking desperately for her friend who was not following behind her as she thought. _18 speeds my ass,_ she thought as the image of the simple vehicle breaking apart just as she sat down upon it. The thing must have taken some damage from all the monster melee around her.

"Rachel? Rachel?"

Jolie snapped her head to the left, then the right. Finally she saw her friend underneath a tree, near the doors to Entrance Plaza. She was warding off a few monsters with her hands alone, pushing and shoving as best she could.

"RACHEL!"

Out of the corner of her eye Jolie spied a giant blue parasol. Wrenching it from the ground, she charged at the carcasses crowding her BFF. As she plowed through them, knocking them to the ground but not "killing" them, something in the back of her mind wryly piped up: _Hmm, if my manager saw me right now holding this big blue thing, he'd probably nominate me for mascot of the company._

"Jolie! Oh…thank you." The two embraced quickly, as they always did after a crisis had just passed. It was a real Philo's Photos moment. "Let's get inside."

"Right. Sorry to have left you a second."

"You're here now, Jol," Rachel replied as she held the door for her friend, knocking aside another creature as she did so. "That's what matters."

The two ran through more monsters indoors as they tried to find a suitable store for safety and sustenance, till this all blew over, hopefully.

"Let's try upstairs," said Rachel, running towards an escalator.

"No—I thought that downstairs might have more—RACHEL!"

Suddenly a zombie swung at the white woman from behind, the decayed hand striking her across the back of the head. Rachel fell straight down.

"RA-RACHEL!"

The woman was far from dead, but very dazed. She didn't get up, but rather crawled a foot or so, so frightened was she.

"DON'T WORRY, I'M COMING!" Jolie paced towards her friend, looking around her for some kind of weapon of opportunity. All she could see nearby was a discarded bag of potato chips.

More zombies came to join the pair as the seconds passed. It was starting to become stifling in here.

"Jolie…" Rachel was still on all fours, too scared to get up. Somehow she maneuvered herself onto an escalator track, and was beginning to become drawn upward by the conveyance, away from her friend.

"RACHEL! NO!"

At this point, too many monsters impeded Jolie's efforts to save her friend. Tens were clawing and scratching in her direction, and there was no way she could get through. She had to retreat.

"No…no…Rachel…"

Looking forlornly one last time at the woman she might have loved—had she not been inclined towards men—Jolie set her head down in defeat and started to run the other way.

Instants later, she found one of her other favorite stores, Gramma's Kids, and dropped to her knees slowly and melodramatically, her hand to her face as she did so. She loved the place before because she was that much of an overachiever; while people about to marry were thinking of prospective future children, she was already planning for her coming grandchildren. But no such issue would come from any union between her and Aaron now.

As she cried out her corneas, Jolie thought fondly and regretfully of Rachel. She should have tried to do more…but there were so many monsters out there…they probably got to her by now…oh Rachel…

Jolie tried to block out thoughts of her friend as she stared emptily at a stuffed bear nearby, which was vacantly looking back, an inanimate companion in this smothering new world of animated undead.

EPILOGUE

_Huh,_ thought Jonathan as she paced through Wonderland, looking for some weapons and supplies while Brett was off looking for Alyssa in Paradise Plaza. He hadn't found any firearms around or anything of that sort just yet. _What a maroon that Burt Thompson is…trying to think he's all cool and what not. He'll never be hip with the parents he has…that video game lawyer especially. When will that moron ever quit? What an effed-up family that is._

Jonathan jumped up some stairs nearby, passing Lovely Fashion House on his right. He couldn't help but look inside as he watched an overweight man and a gross, metric ton of a…woman (?) were making out.

Forget the zombies…this was the most disgusting thing Jonathan had seen all day.

"Excuse me," he cut in. "Just wanted to let you all know…about the situation outside."

"Oh, we're aware, hon," said the sort-of-woman, who appeared to be some sort of mall cop. "We're just gettin' in a bit of extra…intimacy time…if you'll excuse us…er…" She sounded as if she were fishing for a name to call him by.

"Jonathan," the young survivalist said, turning to leave.

A beat passed as more disgusting making out occurred. Then:

"Wait…sir."

The young man spun back around at the sound of the other man's voice. He was no longer being absorbed into the she-behemoth's maw.

"What's your name…your full name, if I may ask?"

"I'm…Jonathan, Jonathan Picardsen."

The other two looked at one another in astonishment.

"It's him, Nathan," the female said.

"Yes…after so many years. Jo, I…can't believe it."

The pair reflected relieved looks at one another, then hugged heartily.

"Umm…what's going on here?" Jonathan asked, feeling as if he were on the outside of some inside joke.

The female set her sunglassed gaze upon the young man. "We've finally found you…you've finally come back to us…Jo_nath_an."

"Jo_nath_an? Why are you saying my name like that? It's pronounced _Jon_athan."

"You would think that, wouldn't you," the other man, Nathan, said, chuckling a bit to himself. "We named you after ourselves, but decided we couldn't support you so we had to…sign the papers and everything. We gave you over to the Picardsens at such a young age...I guess we forgot to tell them about the whole pronunciation thing. But no, you're our Jo_nath_an alright, standing right here before us…who would've thought it? Especially at a time like this?!"

Up until this point, Jonathan was always under the impression that he was a natural, biological Picardsen. This certainly seemed to add to the nightmare that he must have been having right now…it was that bizarre, so much more than any monster he had recently previously encountered.

"Come on, Jo_nath_an," said the corpulent cop before him, with open, enormous arms, "…give your old mother a big kiss!"

As he stood there, Jonathan thought to himself that, had he had a shotgun or something like that on him right now, he would have sooner put _that_ to his mouth.


	18. Alliance of the Alyssas

SEPTEMBER 21ST, 11:00PM

_Never thought I'd live to see the outside of Al Fresca again,_ thought Alyssa Laurent as she was escorted outside of the mall, forcibly, by soldiers frocked in black. _Much less the outside of the entire mall, or really, much less outside at all._

Though it was a human force that was dragging her out of the horror that was the Willamette Park View, and not an undead one, Alyssa was still filled with an inexplicable sentiment of dread. For some reason, these men didn't seem entirely on the level, didn't appear to be here primarily for rescue purposes. She watched as a couple of the troops mowed down a series of zombies in the outdoor plaza, and for once almost felt sorry for the creatures.

Just over Alyssa's shoulder, her new love Yuu and his best friend Shinji were exchanging phrases rapidly in Japanese. Perhaps it was some sort of plan they were devising; the pair seemed craftier than the usual hapless tourists. Alyssa felt safer with Yuu and Shinji, much moreso than with those other two asses Brett and Jonathan. They made her feel like an equal, like she belonged. They even attempted to help her better herself, encouraging her to think for herself more and speak her own mind, not just parrot the words of others as she had the horrible habit of doing.

"That's enough from you two gentlemen," spat an authoritative voice nearby, muffled by a military mask. Yuu and Shinji shut up.

Mere feet away, Alyssa watched as that lame woman, Leah, and the scared guy—what was his name? Jordan?—were herded towards the same helicopter as herself. The unfortunate ex-mother could not help but stumble as she was being prodded ahead, as her ankle was wounded and bloody and impeded normal movement. "Jordan" watched the woman, protectively, it seemed, as she went along, giving mean looks to the armored men as he was forced along. _Perhaps Leah may bring some balls out in the man for once,_ Alyssa thought._ Might be good for him._

On Alyssa's other side, a similar scene was stewing as a mellow-looking blonde with a mauve shirt and blue jeans was coerced along toward the chopper. Behind her, a skinny, sad-looking guy in a green t-shirt and khaki shorts was moving in time with the girl, and was also watching her carefully, almost as if looking for an opening to attack. The skinny rip didn't look as if he could really take the soldiers, but maybe something he saw in the blonde would cause his adrenalin to kick in.

As Alyssa continued to be led to the helicopters, she closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for one or more of these three hoped-for, special forces—her Japanese allies, "Jordan," or the skinny guy—to snap into action and save them all.

Yeah, like any of that would ever happen. She may as well just give up all hope and climb into the copter.

RRRRRRMMMMM

ERRRRRRRRRRT!!!

"Call for backup, we need…

SHHHHHBOOOOOM

…AAAAARGH!!!"

The soldiers all around the survivors were scattered by a nasty blast as an impressive, imposing vehicle shifted onto the scene. Alyssa and the others took the opportunity to dive away for cover, with "Jordan"—no wait, it was Gordon, wasn't it?—lifting Leah onto his back as they scurried. The goons who weren't knocked down by the explosion opened fire on the new arrival—a heavily armored truck—but none of their bullets appeared to find purchase upon the vehicle's steely hide.

From within the truck, a rocket tube was raised and fired once more.

SHHHHHBOOOOOM

"AAAAAAGH!"

The remaining Special Threats were downed by this second salvo. When the smoke cleared, the driver door to the truck burst open, and an intrepid-looking woman in a maroon pantsuit jumped out. Alyssa strained to see who it was through the smoky air before her.

She would have never have guessed who it was.

"Cousin Alyssa?" she said, gaspingly.

"Cousin Alyssa!" the other woman replied in turn.

The two women with the same name ran to one another and embraced. The other survivors simply picked themselves up off the ground and scratched their heads.

"A-ha-ha-ha!" laughed Alyssa Laurent as she looked cheerfully at her cousin: the Raccoon reporter Alyssa Ashcroft. "It's so wonderful to see you! I can't believe you're here!"

"Yes, well…" Alyssa Ashcroft looked around a second to make sure there weren't any wayward soldier drones readying to fire upon them. "I got a tip about something bad going down in Colorado, and decided to take my Wagon out here along with a couple friends from the city."

"Alright!" The other Alyssa couldn't help herself; they should all be home free now. "Well, let's not waste any more time here. Oh, there's people here too that need help…" she said, pointing to her new boy and his best buddy, as well as the other two pairs of people, "can we fit them into your truck too?"

"It might be tight, but we can't leave anyone behind," replied the Raccoon Alyssa. "Come on, let's get them in."

As Yuu, Shinji, Gordon, Leah, Ray and Simone joined their Alyssa in the truck, one of the new Alyssa's companions, a ponytailed blonde wearing what looked like a waitress' uniform, spoke up. "Alyssa…" she said, "we're kind of low on firepower here. Maybe while we're still at the mall, we should stock up if we can."

"Sure thing, Cindy," said the courageous reporter. She looked over at her assault rifle in the corner, then looked at her cousin. "Alyssa—or, if it's cool with you, let's refer to you as Laurent, to avoid confusion between ourselves—you take my weapon for now. You know of a place in the mall close by that has some decent guns, or at least hand-to-hand stuff?"

"Yeah, yeah…there's a McHandy's right in Al Fresca—the plaza closest to here. They have some hardware inside…though by that I mean literally hardware, not firearms or anything."

"Good enough. Cindy, Yoko and I need to get some new gear. You wait here with the assault rifle and guard the others in the Wagon."

"Okay!" Laurent was so excited, not only to have such heroic responsibility, but also to actually wield more than a pop gun for once. She always hated having just the handgun while her cockier cocks of "friends," Jonathan and Brett, had a shotgun and machinegun, respectively. And the assault rifle was quite the upgrade, even better than what those boys had.

"Nice set of wheels you have here, by the way," Laurent remarked as Ashcroft prepared to set out for Al Fresca, a burst handgun in hand.

"Thanks. We formally call it the 'Resident Evil Outbreak Speedwagon'—though we usually refer to the first three words by their initials."

As Ashcroft emptied out of the truck, the waitress clutched her Magnum, and the other person—was it a man or a woman? Laurent couldn't tell—put down a rocket launcher and picked up a survival knife. Then the he/she opened her mouth and resolved the matter for her.

"You all stay in here," said the apparent girl, with her low, yet somewhat feminine, voice. "Alyssa, Cindy, and I'll all be back soon. My name's Yoko, in case any of you would like to know."

The girl looked directly at Yuu as she said this last sentence.

Over the next twenty minutes or so—or one hundred seconds in real time—Ashcroft, Cindy and Yoko ran off to raid the hardware store to which Laurent referred them. As the three Charlie's Angels of ex-Raccoon City civilians were seasoned zombie veterans, they had no trouble dispatching the undead in their way, as well as the soldiers that tried to hamper their efforts. Umbrella had thrown much worse at them back in the day. That was all eight years ago, sure—but the women had only grown stronger since then.

As soon as the women hit McHandy's, Ashcroft scooped up a chainsaw: a real, red one, not one of those kidstuff bright blue mini ones. She instantly revved it up and tested it out on several monsters, and harrumphed in satisfaction as they all fell to her industrial blade. While on her brisk rampage through Al Fresca, she incidentally knocked over a couple of trash cans, each of which yielded a discarded handgun. Ashcroft wasted no time in fetching them as well. Seconds later, she lived up to her name, as she wielded a mean chainsaw like Ash and dual pistols like Croft.

The crimson-clothed woman called for her compatriots to follow as she started to head back towards the Speedwagon. Cindy sheathed her Magnum for the moment as she bust a few unliving heads with her new sledgehammer, and Yoko conserved the sharpness of her survival knife by bashing enemies with her…lead pipe. Not unlike Laurent, Yoko was often the shortchanged one of the trio. She was kind of compensated by wielding the heavy fire like the rocket launcher from time to time…but how was that supposed to help in an all-out melee?

No matter for now. Soon enough, the three Raccoon rabblerousers rejoined the seven security area survivors in the armored truck. With a flourish, Ashcroft jumped into the driver's seat, and the ten sped off.

"We've got to gain as much ground as we can, before those soldiers from back there regroup and catch up with us again." Ashcroft set her eyes sternly upon the townscape rolling before them as she spoke. "The National Guard really shouldn't be a worry for us—we can plow through them pretty efficaciously, as actually happened on our way in here. It's just a matter of escaping from other significant dangers, unscathed."

"Yeah, like the entire undead population of Willamette," said Cindy, navigating for Ashcroft in the front passenger's seat. "I've never seen so many of these freaks; they never came at us in numbers such as these when we were in our prime. There's zombies everywhere."

Laurent was up at the front of the Wagon with the leading ladies, watching the horrific horizon ahead of them. As she heard the waitress warble her last couple of words, an irresistible pang to repeat the woman popped into her mind. She clutched the top of the leather seat before her, in which her cousin was sitting, in a supreme effort to suppress the urge. _Must…not…parrot…_

Suddenly the truck struck a bump in the road, startling the ravishing redhead and causing her to lose control for a critical second.

"ZOMBIES EVERYWHERE!" Laurent finally blurted out. _Damn it…_she lost out to it once again.

"Yes, we're established that, Alyssa…I mean, Laurent," said Ashcroft. "I…"

BUMP, BOOMP, BUMP

"What the heck was that?" asked Leah, from the back of the truck, as the thudding weight that sounded from atop the vehicle reverberated…then started to shift around seconds later.

"Damn…some of those things must be on top of the truck," said Ashcroft. "I'm going up top to take care of them. Yoko, grab the wheel."

Without another moment's hesitation, Alyssa Ashcroft jumped out of the driver's seat, slung the red chainsaw into her hands, and climbed the metal ladder to the roof of the Speedwagon. "I'll be right back," she added.

The next few instants were a blur of a beautiful young journalist springing open the roof shutter, leaping out into the musty evening air, and slicing her way through half a dozen monsters. Ashcroft quickly cut the plodding problems off at the knees—literally—with fast, efficient slashes and chops, tearing into one creature's thigh, cutting into another's neck, swiping through yet another's waist. Another pair of zombies leaped onto the back of the truck from a passing building, and she whipped out her pistols and fired as she turned. Small yet powerful rounds found their marks in the maws of the monsters, and the beasts' heads were sheared off at the mouth as the bullets barreled through. She dispatched them as masterfully as only a journalist, only a reporter, could.

In the blustery chill of the September air that was wafting freely atop the truck, Ashcroft took a moment to collect herself. How soon the weather seems to be changing, she thought as she wiped sweat from her brow. That's right, though…it was right around the time of the autumnal equinox. Fall was just setting in.

A moment later, Ashcroft steadied herself to jump back down into the vehicle. Just as her head ducked down into the opening and she closed the shutter behind her, a motorcycle, with two occupants aboard, crested into the truck's rearview.

"Stay still back there, Dana," chided the operator of the cycle, looking slightly behind him. "I don't want to have to shake my own daughter-in-law off this thing…but I'll do it if I have to."

"You can't do this, Russell; you'll kill all of them…and I'll make you responsible for their deaths, I swear it." The girl holding the rider tightly feared for her life, but did not lose an ounce of the defiance she harbored.

"What kind words coming from the young woman whose life I just saved," Russell spat back. "Maybe I should have left you dead on the floor of Entrance Plaza, after all."

Dana lowered her stunning eyes to the road rumbling beneath the bike. It was true; her father-in-law could have just left her there. But she knew he didn't do it because of their family bond. Russell Barnaby furtively applied his secret "super survivor serum," as he called it, to himself just before he turned, then came back to life and stole away into the night just as the men in black all arrived. He then used the serum to revive Dana and the other unfortunates who died at the front doors of the mall, so that he could build his own invincible army of superhumans, imbued with part-human, part-zombie essences. It was all in the name of further research for his superiors, which he once performed in Santa Cabeza. That ultra-stacked blonde, who never left the monitor room,

didn't need to know all that. God, he hated her, hated her face…but didn't mind her chest.

Yes, Russell barely thought of the relation he had to his daughter-in-law as he was doing his dirty work in Entrance Plaza. Granted, they actually shared a surname, as Russell's real last name was Simms, which he used several times in the past before switching to his wife's maiden name of Barnaby. It was a happier time when he used that name…with gala events he attended and hosted, "Russell Simms' Deaf Chemistry Jam" being the most colorful of these happenings. _A science fair for the hard of hearing,_ he thought to himself as he speeded along, _who has time for that now._

"Did you hear me?!" Dana continued to yell above the screaming winds around her and her father-in-law. "Let me off of this thing, this instant!"

"Not until we complete the task at hand, my dear." Russell raised his cane, which contained several small torpedoes within. He had to do those other survivors in, before they could escape and explain to the nation what really happened in Santa Cabeza.

"Ashcroft, we've got a motorcycle, rider armed, on our six," said Yoko, her voice all business…though the back of her mind was occupied by a dapper Japanese man at the back of the truck. "He looks like he has an unwilling passenger on the back…and some kind of rocket…"

SHHHHHBANG

The left side of the Speedwagon rocked hard as Russell's torpedo slammed into the vehicle.

"Eep!" cried Simone at the back, vocalizing for the first time ever, it seemed. Close by, the stripling, Ray, looked on, half as if wanting to console her, half as if wanting to jump her bones.

"Ashcroft, we've got to do something!"

"All right, let's…"

"I'll handle it this time," volunteered Laurent, lifting the assault rifle her cousin handed her. She resented the fact that, though she was given the gun, she still didn't really have an opportunity to use it, as her watch of the survivors during Ashcroft's McHandy's spree was uneventful.

"No, you'd better let me," Cindy cut in, locking and loading her Magnum. "That thing's spray will hit the hostage most likely. We need a surer shot." The winsome waitress set off toward one of the truck's side holes to take aim.

"Then give me the gun!" Laurent called after. She'd had enough of just sitting on the side…

"Alyssa," said her cousin, haltingly, "we need to work together on this, if we're going to get out of here in one piece. Let Cindy handle this one."

The flame-haired fox pouted as she sat back down. God, she was so beautiful when she was angry.

Cindy craned her head and her right arm through the side hole and took aim at the trailing Russell Barnaby, who was quickly catching up to the truck.

BLAM BLAM BLAM

A few powerful shots managed to damage the cycle's engine. But the bike kept on coming.

BLAM BLAM

SHHHHHHHH

"Hang it!" Cindy jumped away from the side hole.

BLANG

Another torpedo caromed into the siding of the Wagon. Thank Goodness Ashcroft managed to get all that armoring from Jim Chapman back at Raccoon. The "subway agent" was now working at a Subway serving sandwiches, but he was still well connected to some folks who could hook one up with the best vehicular and other fortifications imaginable. Pity he couldn't swing it to come along because of work; he really wanted to visit his adoptive father, Steven, at that supermarket too.

"Looks as if my rockets aren't fazing them," Russell said to no one in particular. He opened up the motorcycle to pull closer to the truck ahead of him. "I'll have to resort to my other means of neutralization." With the index finger of the hand holding his mechanized cane, he pressed a button and something whirred within the thing. "I'll just…get, get off of me, Dana!!"

"HELP! HELP ME!" shouted the pretty young woman on the back of the bike as she grabbed for her captor's cane. "Please, HELP!"

"That woman's petrified; we have to save her." Leah set to her unsteady feet as she finished the sentence. She hobbled over to the front of the truck. "Miss, we can't let that woman die!"

"I know, I know!" replied Ashcroft, doing her best to avoid as many zombies milling in the road in front of the vehicle as possible as she drove. "Laurent, open the side door right behind my seat! Yoko, Procedure OBFPHHDD!"

"Got it, boss." Yoko picked up one of Ashcroft's handguns and ran to the door, just as the other Alyssa released the appropriate lock, and slammed it open. The young, mannish Japanese girl was ready to fire point-blank at the rider's head and snatch the hostage from the back of the cycle, just as was outlined in the Outbreak girls' aforementioned procedure. However, Yoko hesitated a second as she was greeted by Russell's cane as soon as the door flew open.

"Now…suffer the queen's sting!" bellowed the old man, pointing his cane directly at the heroine's face.

"Give…me…that!"

A green-sleeved arm shot out of nowhere and seized the cane by the middle. Russell struggled with the seizer, the heretofore feeble Leah Stein, who was renewed with the prospect of renewing herself, saving someone when she couldn't with Grace. Oh, Grace…

"Get off…get off of this right now!" screamed Russell Simms as he continued to ride along the truck and wrestle with Leah. "You will not ruin what I accomplished in Santa Cabeza…"

Something then clicked again in the young woman's mind.

(You will not ruin what I accomplished in Santa Ca-GRACE-a…)

"GRACE!" responded Leah, as with another mighty tug she wrested the cane away from the bitter old man. The recoil from the grab shocked Russell and set the codger off balance, to the point that his motorcycle was starting to teeter.

"NO!" Unable to remain inactive any longer, Laurent abruptly jumped up, rushed to the doorway, pushed Yoko aside, and snatched Dana from the back of the cycle seat just before the bike crashed onto its side, tumbling a couple of times over before settling in the dust behind the Speedwagon.

Underneath the wreck, Russell clutched the concrete beneath him, still alive but now stranded amidst scores of straggling zombies. He would have to go back to the Barnaby-Simms drawing board…

On the onrushing truck, a bewildered Dana Simms looked appreciatively into the alluring brown eyes of her rescuer. "Th-thank you, miss," she said, ever so innocently. "I thought I was going to die all over again back there." The girl felt safer now; but she was still somewhat scared, so she lifted her hands before her in a karate-chop sort of stance, assuming the same wavering, defensive Bruce Lee pose that all female survivors in the Park View Mall struck at one time or another.

"It's nothing," responded Laurent, a goofy grin brightening her radiant face. One voice in her head shouted her usual orgasmic _YES!_ at her small victory, while another questioned, _What does she mean, "die all over again?"_

As the redhead looked at Dana quizzically, Leah Stein proudly pounded across the floor of the truck with her new cane. "This thing's great!" she bubbled, strolling leisurely a few steps more as she went to sit over by Gordon once more. She looked to the rear of the truck, as if to address the old man who had just attacked them. "Thank you very much, kind sir," she said.

As she hunched back down into her seat, Gordon marveled at the woman. _So pleasant and sweet, he thought. Seems so nice…and I love the way she stroked my scalp back in the survivor room. Said I was her baby. I wouldn't mind her running her fingers through my hairlessness once more._

Leah caught the coward looking at her as she settled herself, and her smile faded a bit. She calmed down, thinking and hoping to survive so that she could see her Gil once again. She felt so good though; with this experience on the Wagon, she would get her man back on that other "wagon," away from all the alcohol…and maybe they would try again, have another child, who knew.

As Leah lost herself in thought, Gordon looked away, disheartened. _Ahh, Leah…guess it's…not gonna happen._

A few seats down, Shinji Kitano looked on lustily as that waitress walked over in his direction. " Yuu, Yuu…lend me that magazine you have, for a second, " he said, in his native tongue, to his best friend.

" What do you need it for? I was about to go talk to Alyssa, give her some…moral support, so to speak. "

" She doesn't need your support right now! She just saved someone's life! And she doesn't need a no-good, boring ass fop like you anyway. Vacationing in Willamette…you're quite the wild man. "

" I said it before and I'll say it again…you're the one who said it would be a good time. "

" Well, in any case, Yuu…you're not the only one entitled to the hot, young American chicks. Now give me that. "

Shinji scooped the magazine out of Yuu's lap just as Cindy sat down next to him. The plump foreigner smiled sheepishly as the blonde looked his way, and to his delight she smiled back.

"Hi," she said cheerily.

Shinji could hardly contain himself, but mustered enough composure to hand the girl his mystic periodical. She opened the literature to the first page, and was surprised to see a small neon window pop up in the center of the paper. Her conversant said something rapidly in Japanese, and the magazine buzzed a second. "My name's Shinji," it read.

"Oh!" Cindy squeaked, peaked by this development. Amazing! What would those guys in the Land of the Rising Sun think of next? "I'm Cindy."

"It's a pleasure," printed the page.

"Gosh…it's so stressful, all of this, isn't it?"

"I'll say." The magazine just seemed so user-friendly to the woman. Shinji suppressed a chuckle as he looked at her, hoping that the waitress would be just as easy.

"You…you're kind of cute, you know that?" Cindy did her best not to blush as she said it, but failed. It had been a bit of time since she had been with her man back home…George Hamilton. Not that nasty ass, sunburnt freak George Hamilton—the George Hamilton who was once a renowned surgeon in Raccoon, before all the crap hit the fan there. He and Cindy became an item shortly after the crises of 1998…but the passion of their relationship was waning. Cindy needed something new, something exotic, to stem the tide of her tedium with George. And this chubby, cuddly opportunity sitting next to her looked like just the thing.

"You're just like a big panda bear," she continued, placing her hand on Shinji's knee. "Pandas come from Japan, right?"

"Oh yes, indeed they do," replied the magazine, even though the truth, as Shinji full well knew, was that they really derived from China.

A short pause.

Then another few words on the page: "And did you know that 'Shinji' means 'Cindy' in Japanese?"

The blonde's jaw dropped. "It _does_?"

"Yes…we both have the same name, even though we're each from such distant places. It seems like…fate…"

Another smile from Cindy shone into the stout face of the foreigner.

Yoko looked on angrily at Alyssa Laurent as she rubbed her arm. _How dare she knock me aside like that, she thought. That little waif, I'll shove my rocket launcher right up the space between her little spindly…_

The sweet sound of smooching drew the Japanese girl's gaze away towards the Wagon's rear. _Huh, look at that. It appears that Cindy's letting loose a bit…maybe I'll blackmail her by threatening to tell George…she still owes me some hemostat and herbs from her case…and I never did like her, anyway._

She looked over to Cindy's hookup's buddy, who put his hand to his head in disbelief at Shinji's conquest. _Now him I do like. Yuu and Yoko, sitting on a torii_…

Yoko didn't look away fast enough as Yuu caught her salacious stare. She bowed her head for a second…but then looked up again.

He was returning the same expression—the same yearning that Yoko was yielding—a second ago.

RAT A TAT A TAT A TAT

Sparks rained down on the survivors as a hail of bullets suddenly pelted the truck's roof.

The Shinji/Cindy kiss was broken as both participants looked up alongside all the other panicking survivors. Ray grabbed Simone by her uninjured arm in an attempt to cover her from any incoming fire. Dana's hypnotic eyes widened all the more as she lifted her karate block skyward.

"Sounds like another attack," said Ashcroft, matter-of-factly as she continued driving. All this was such old hat to her.

_Ya think?_, thought Laurent as she watched her cousin calmly operate the truck. She gripped her assault rifle. "Seems like it might be a good opportunity for me to go topside…that cool with you, cuz?"

"Yeah, that's fine." Ashcroft braked a second as a gaggle of zombie children innocently shambled by at a crosswalk in front of her and another burst of gunfire erupted from above. She looked behind her, and noticed for the first time that Russell's cane, now Leah's, was hollow at the bottom—almost sort of like a rocket tube, or a…

"Wait, Laurent," she said, grabbing the redhead by her immaculate arm. "That cane Leah has reminds me: Yoko, do we still have that ampoule shooter from the university?"

"Yeah, boss, we should."

"Go and grab that from back that, will you? My cousin can use that instead of the assault rifle."

The conscientious Japanese student and scientist complied, getting up from the front passenger seat to go fetch the omnipotent weapon. A second later, she reemerged with a small silver tube in her hand.

"This doesn't look like much, but it can fire anything from ampoules filled with anti-zombie toxins to microscopic ICBMs; we've been fitting it with the latter, as of late. Should work like a charm against whatever's above us."

Above the Speedwagon, Otis Washington cackled maniacally as he commandeered the Special Forces chopper. He managed to make off with it just as the soldiers started "snatchin' people," as he wrote in his note to Frank West. Some survivors followed close behind his stealthy, sneaky maneuvers to the aircraft, and were all set to join him in his ride when, out of nowhere, he just snapped like your regular garden variety psychopath.

"Come on, Etta," he yelled at the transceiver in his hand as he ran towards the pilot seat, "you and me, we're gonna go 'round the world and call up some other folks! This guy's in the cosmetic shop, huu-ee! This lady's stuck in the children's store! Go run over and get 'em! Hah hah! You and me, Etta the Willamettan walkie-talkie, we gonna split this place and make beautiful music togethah…hah hah hah..."

Almost all the survivors who were with Otis up to this point scattered and ran back to the Special Forces quarantine, expecting to find a less maddening milieu there.

All of them escaped the janitor…except one.

Hapless Kay Nelson was just not fast enough to evade Otis' ancient pincers. With a lascivious death grip, the elderly Park View employee grabbed the scantily clad girl and hurled her into his helicopter. From a back pocket he fished out an old pair of handcuffs that he hadn't used in ages and latched Kay's wrists together, leaving her sitting on her ample rear at the rear of the whirlybird. Countless cuss words formed in the woman's head, but all she could verbalize at the moment was an indignant "Hey!"

And now the chopper was bearing down on the wagonload of escaping survivors. Otis fired his machineguns once more at the vehicle, causing another myriad of tiny dents in the truck's roof.

"Guess I'll have to bring out the big guns." Otis focused on the missile deployment panel of the helicopter. "You did this, Kay, didnja? You secured their escape out of Willamette, you little whore."

Kay looked up tiredly from her place five feet behind Otis. "No…I didn't, I…I…

"Oh God, please help me!" The girl looked out a window on the left side of the airborne vehicle. What could Kay do?

Then she remembered the thing that Frank absently gave her after her traumatic time at Lovely Fashion House.

SHHHHHBLAAAAAM!

"Damn it!" cried Ashcroft as she yanked the wheel to the right, then back to the left. Otis' first missile barely missed the Wagon as the latter swerved out of the projectile's path at the last second. The maniac would doubtlessly fire another one off in another instant.

Atop the truck's roof, Laurent propped open the shutter, the ampoule shooter on her shoulder with three nano-ICBM's within. She faced the helicopter bravely, ready to rock at last.

Then she spied that slut with the lavender quarter-shirt and obsidian underoos through the window of her target, and held her fire.

_That mop-topped, broom-bristle haired bimbo,_ Laurent thought, as more machinegun fire exploded all around her. _Not only does she one-up me in terms of slutty clothing…she has the nerve to cockblock my chance at heroinedom. Damn her! But I can't kill her. I guess._

"We've got another hostage on our hands!" the redhead yelled down to the occupants inside the truck. "I can't blow the chopper out of the sky!"

"A chopper?!" peeped Simone beneath her, her hands shaking. "What are we going to do?!" She thought of how she never did get to talk to that Isabela woman. _It's just as well, I suppose, if we're going to be blown to smithereens, _she thought.

Nearby, Ray watched the underrated blonde as protectively as always. All the other guys kept ranting and raving, hootin' and hollerin' like Howard Dean, about that floozy in the black dress and that agent in the geriatric skirtsuit. But Simone was the real deal in terms of beauteous blondes. And she came off so mature, so sophisticated…she was the antithesis of those Tompkins brats in the corner, especially that one with the hat who kept crossing her arms and going "No way!" over and over and over and over and over again. Friggin' eighteen year olds. Simone was a real woman…must have been no more than a couple of years younger than Ray Mathison's thirty-one summers.

The outside Alyssa stood frozen atop the Speedwagon as the inside Alyssa drove on, also out of ideas.

Fortunately, inside the helicopter, someone else obviated the dilemma.

With deft, dexterous fingers, Kay worked the handcuff key out of a back pocket that barely covered her divine, tanned posterior cheek. With the expertise of an escape artist, she worked the key through the lock as Otis chortled on before her.

"I'm gonna bomb 'em all to heck, Kay! Can y'hear me back there? Well, I'm sure your pretty little frosted-mini-wheats head is probably pretty scared. You're probably dealing with some pretty heavy stuff right now."

The old ductkeeper's gibbering kept him from hearing his captive as she rose up from the floor of the chopper and grabbed a coffee creamer sitting on the opposite end of the cabin. Stepping up softly to the pilot, Kay raised the plastic bottle over his head, then brought it down on the back of his neck with all her might.

"You could probably use some encouragement, Ka…OOF!"

The blow stunned Otis momentarily as Kay ran to the door on the left side of the chopper and flung it open. She looked down to the truck roaring below her.

If I jump now, though, Otis can just come back and kill us, she thought. Quickly, she dashed back over to where the creamer was, and picked up a few apples—the other source of sustenance back in the security area. She then sprinted back to the open chopper door, and with a slight grunt, she heaved the fruits towards the tail rotor of the helicopter.

The spinning blade pureed the first couple of apples without effort, but then started to stall a bit when Kay threw a third, then a fourth. As Otis came to, he watched in horror as Kay then fetched his transceiver and threatened to hurl that as well.

"Those were some Washington apples, rotor," Kay said to the whirling blade at the rear of the copter. "How 'bout a nice Washington walkie-talkie...Otis Washington's, that is!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!" Otis flipped the controls onto autopilot and flopped onto the metal flooring. The helicopter stood suspended in the air as the janitor begged for the life of his most prized possession. "Please don't, Kay! I'll do anything!"

"Your reign of transmissionary terror is over, Otis!" Kay lifted the communicator as if to toss it in the next instant.

"PLEASE! Be careful with that, okay? It's not a toy!"

The girl's perfect, freckled face blanched a bit as the man then started to grovel and groan, dampening the floor of the chopper with his heartful tears. She closed her eyes a second, feeling sorry for the geezer. This transceiver was probably all he had at one time—a sole friend in an era before zombies, psychopaths, and sexy, sultry survivors. She threw the small device to him.

"You can have it, Otis," she said. "But you can't have me."

Otis clutched at the security room transceiver like a security blanket fragment as Kay once again looked downward at the Speedwagon, which was now stopped along with the chopper.

"It's alright, Kay!" yelled Laurent from underneath her. "Just jump!"

"Are you nuts?!" shouted the other woman from the helicopter. "Just jump down? What are you thinking?!"

"You can do it! Hurry up and jump!" Laurent threw the ampoule shooter down into the hatch and raised her arms up, as if she could reach the absconding hostage. "You know how that journalist bragged to all the survivors about doing it when he first got to the mall! All you have to do is jump, then duck and roll! There's nothing to it! COME ON!"

"I…I don't know…"

"JUST JUMP YOU GOOFY FACED SLUT!"

"N…no…"

Laurent threw up her hands, then slapped them down at her sides. If only there were an easier way…maybe some way to cushion the girl's fall…

That was it.

"Jord—I mean, Gordon!" she called down, to the coward sitting between Leah and Dana. Surely his girth could absorb the weight of Kay's falling body…well, maybe not her bottom, but most of her body anyway. "Get up here! We need you to catch Kay!"

"Who's Kay?"

"Just…forget it, get up here, NOW!"

Gordon grumbled as he got up off his rotund rear end. He didn't want to help anybody at the moment, unless it was Leah…or maybe that cute girl across the survivor area way with the purple shirt, microshorts, and Life cereal hair…or maybe her friend with the big glasses and the bigger…

"We'll need you to catch Kay as she falls down, got it?!"

Gordon looked up the metal ladder to see Laurent looking down a few feet away. "Umm…" He looked down a second. "Sounds too hard."

The redhead grabbed the man by the scruff of his sweatshirt and dragged him onto the roof of the truck. Gordon looked up and saw Kay in the helicopter doorway, her short, oatmeal-colored wisps of hair flowing in the breeze, her midriff shining in the midnight moonlight.

Suddenly something else became hard to Gordon.

He shook himself free of Laurent's grasp and ran out to the center of the truck's roof, splaying his arms wide open. "It's okay, Kay! Jump down, I'll catch you!"

The skimpily-clothed survivor wasted no more time, but rather took a deep breath and did a little hop off the copter into space. She shrieked in fright as she fell…

…And her cry was cut short as she landed safely in the arms of Gordon Stalworth.

Kay looked up at the man who caught her. She saw his face encased in flowers, and found herself irretrievably entranced. "Thank you," she said, leaning forward and squeezing the man tightly.

"I…I…yeah," was all he could say. The two exchanged the most tender look as Laurent bore down on them.

"Come on, you two lovebirds," she said teasingly, patting Gordon on the shoulder. "We should get back inside."

As Laurent, Kay and Gordon scrambled back inside the prodigious machine, Otis stirred in the chopper above, his cheeks bearing the imprint of transceiver knobs and sensors. The sound of the tail rotor conking out had startled him; it looked as if the Special Forces whirlybird wasn't going to make it much farther.

"It's…it's okay, baby," he said, to his beloved walkie-talkie, "you, you and me, Etta, we're gonna make it just fine. We're gonna…we're gonna jump out, just like that slut did a second ago. We can make it."

Otis looked down at the unforgiving asphalt below as the Speedwagon pulled away. Etta, the Willamettan Walkie-Talkie, would not give as much support as Gordon's massiveness…but the old sport had to at least try.

He sighed as he braced himself, then took the plunge. "Woo-hoo-hoo-hoo!"

He dropped to the ground an instant later, executing an expert roll as soon as he hit. Though he struck the road at a rate of 9.8 meters per second squared times whatever, he hadn't even sustained a scratch. Such were the freefall physics of Willamette, Colorado.

"Okay, okay," Otis said to himself as he stood up, with a bit of effort, and dusted himself off. "I seem to be pretty much intact, and…Etta, you're alright too!"

He looked around. Though there stood several husks of edifices effaced by the city catastrophe, not so much as a single zombie was around for at least a block or two. Maybe Otis could make it out of here after all.

"What a stroke of luck!" he shouted. "Now I just have to…UGH!"

For some reason, he never saw the station wagon that slammed into him, propelling him across the hood and over the fence a house's backyard nearby. He would come to moments later, with Etta still in tow…but much the worse for wear.

Inside the car that struck Otis, two shadowed figures rode along at a rapid rate, the crustiness and white curls matching.

"It won't be much longer now, my baby," the first figure said reassuringly. The second merely nodded her head…and wagged her tail.

Then: "BARK, BARK, BARK!"

"Mmmyes, we'll stop those other survivors," said the first shadow. "We will, soon enough, my little sweetie doggie…"

The station wagon continued to plow through tons of monsters to reach its desired mark.

Kay felt so much more secure now that she was inside the Wagon…and with such a man's man as Gordon Stalworth to boot. So husky, such a hard body…and yet such an infantile face. She could just die.

Gordon gleefully returned the woman's affection as they sat down together in a corner of the truck, holding hands and looking into one another's eyes. Leah who? he thought as he gazed into his new love's eyes. He'd had the guts to catch her, and now to grasp her delicate digits; but his inner coward kept him from kissing her, for now. Ah well…there would probably be time for that later on, anyhow, when they managed to escape—not if.

On the other end of the truck, Ray actually left the company of Simone to speak with Dana for a second.

"So you say this serum can cure zombiehood and even revive the dead?" he asked Miss Deacon-Simms.

"Why, yes," she replied. "Anyone who has been bitten and is about to turn will just…turn right back around and be okay again."

"Hmm…I think I know someone who could use a shot of that right now." He then leaned forward and whispered into Dana's ear like an animated character explaining a plan to his buddy at the end of a cartoon scene. A moment later, the woman nodded and handed over a syringe with the serum within.

It turned out not to be a moment too soon, as Simone had just gotten her hands on Ashcroft's other pistol—the one that Yoko didn't pick up in the fight with Russell—and began to draw it towards her head.

"SIMONE, NO!"

Ray's cry startled the usually serene blonde for just long enough to give him an opportunity to tackle her to the Wagon floor, knocking the handgun away.

"Ray…what are you…oh!"

She struggled underneath him for a second, her tiny fists beating against his chest…then she ceased her efforts as his needle penetrated her.

"Oh…oh…

…ooh…"

In the ensuing instants, Simone began to suddenly feel 53,594 percent better. Ray rolled off of her as she finished shaking, and a beat later she sat up.

"I'm…I'm not in pain anymore…I don't feel the fever of the bite…it's…it's all gone!"

Ray's kind of scary doll face brightened upon hearing this. "Really, Simone?"

"Yeah! I feel…I feel wonderful!" She smiled at the lanky ass survivor. "What… was that that you gave me?"

"Oh, it was nothing…um, I mean, it was a special kind of thing, like a serum, like a shot and stuff, that can cure the zombie thing, you know…" His ability to babble before the blonde knew no bounds.

"Where did you get it? Who gave it to you?"

"Umm…"

Ray paused. He looked back at Dana, who appeared pleased with the results, but then turned back to Simone and said softly, out of the earshot of his benefactress:

"No one gave it to me…I made it!"

"Oh…really? Oh, thank you, thank you so much…"

Now it was Simone's turn to tackle Ray.

The Wagon was nearing the edge of Willamette at last. Another three-quarters of a mile or so and the survivors would be home free.

Yoko looked back at the vehicle's occupants as she sat in the navigator seat. All of the intimate activity she witnessed was really starting to get to her. On one side there was Ray and Simone, lapping each other up like there would be no September 23rd, while Cindy seemed to be "making out" just fine on the other end with her new tonsil hockey opponent. And even though that chubby guy and the nearly naked nymph that fell out of the sky were just holding hands, that was still more than what Yoko had, which was bitterly nothing and no one.

Through the various mushy scenes she noticed Yuu again, by his lonesome. For some reason, though she first saw him with Alyssa—_not our dirty blonde Alyssa; that other, dirtier redhead Alyssa_, she thought—he had since remained by himself for the entire truck trip. Apparently Miss Laurent was more interested in the combat-related action going on than any action with her supposed man.

And the opposite, of course, was true with every other woman on the Wagon, with the exception of the other Alyssa.

Yoko gnawed on her lip with anxiety, wishing that she could develop a

hemostat or something like that to delay menopause…just as there were certain biological agents to slow or stop bleeding or zombification.

"What the—"

Ashcroft strangled the steering wheel as she jerked the Speedwagon to the hardest left in existence. She barely cleared the car before her—a small wagon blocking the road out of town—as the titanic truck skidded, screeched, and finally flipped side over side, to rest in a ditch nearby.

Two minutes passed with no activity from the survivors' escape vessel. Then, at last, the roof shutter banged open, with a bloodied arm pushing the panel and steadying it. Ashcroft's ashen face protruded from the opening, checking the outside of the vehicle to ensure that there were no fuel tank ruptures or any other such imminent dangers.

"Okay…good. Nothing looks like it's about to explode, so we're safe for now." The other eleven Wagon inhabitants breathed a collective sigh of relief as they struggled to regain their bearings.

Ashcroft cleared her throat, then called down into the truck's interior once more. "I want to do a quick roll call, just to make sure everyone's still alive, alright?

"Leah and Dana," she started.

"Yes, we're here, and relatively unhurt," said Leah from below.

"Gordon, Kay, Ray, and Simone."

"We're all here, all okay," said Ray.

Ashcroft paused a second, to assess the outside situation some more.

"Cindy and Sinj--…Shinji and Shind--…oh GOD DAMN IT!"

"We're here," said Cindy.

"Yuu and Yoko."

"We're okay, boss." Ooh, how Yoko loved the sound of that pairing; maybe Ashcroft _meant_ to call them like she did, for a specific, if subconscious, reason.

"And…Alyssa…Alyssa Laurent."

"I'm here." The fact that the redhead's name was not paired with her man's didn't really bother her so much…though it seemed to symbolize how distant Yuu had been of late. Ah well, there were more…capital things she had to take care of right now, anyway.

"Alright. Now, crew, we're gonna have to sit tight for a while. I'm just going to check a bit more for damage, and then radio the boys for help. David's toolbox might really come in handy at a time like this. Hopefully it'll just be maybe…inside of a day or so; I hate to say that, but that's probably what it'll be. So everyone just sit tight, I'll be right…"

_"BLEARK!"_

Ashcroft's head snapped towards the unearthy sound. Unbeknownst to her, the organisms inside of the car she had just narrowly avoided had disembarked from their vehicle, and were standing in front of their vehicle. It appeared to be an elderly woman, miserable looking with tinted glasses and natty clothing. Sitting on its hind legs next to her was a mangy, even more miserable looking poodle, looking more abominable than adorable.

"Madonna! My Madonna is out here! She'll save you, won't you, sweetie! Madonna…"

In direct contrast to what the seemingly senile old woman was saying, the dog glared at the truck as if ready to rip it apart…and devour all inside. The mutt bared its fangs and boomed forth its uncanny uncanine bark once more.

_"BLEARK! BLEARK!"_

"Something's wrong with that dog," said Gordon, quivering as he looked out small slats along the side of the overturned truck.

"Yeah…it's as if it's possessed, or…somehow altered, in a way," said Kay.

_"BLEARK!"_

Upon the voicing of this last "bleark," the putrescent poodle began to grow suddenly, expanding and expanding until its size rivaled that of the truck before it. What was once a mangy mongrel was now a deadly dogzilla.

_"BLEOOORK!"_

"Oh…my…God." Ashcroft was so transfixed by the horrific sight that she lost herself for a second, and just stood there.

Then the enormous animal dashed its head forward, straight towards her.

_"BLEOOORK!"_

"AGH!" Ashcroft barely ducked down in time to avoid the powerful poodle's nasty jaws. She was _this_ close to becoming the leviathan's chew toy. The woman allowed herself to slide down the roof of the truck, which was at such an angle to allow that kind of sliding, and into the trapdoor. "EVERYBODY STAY INSIDE THE SPEEDWAGON!" she screamed as she fell in to join the others.

As Ashcroft hit the ground, Simone peeped up again, panicking. "What is that thing?!" she asked, completely in a panic now—no longer nearly as suave as she once was at the Park View Mall.

"It was once an ordinary poodle…but its genetic makeup has apparently been modified. And I think I know exactly what has happened to it." The blonde Alyssa ran over to some supplies in the rear of the truck.

"What? What happened to it?" cried Leah.

"It's somehow become a subject of the dreaded G-virus strain that we encountered several times in Raccoon City. The disease infects a being's entire system and causes it to mutate to disgusting proportions. It's happened before with spiders, fleas, disgusting things like that. This poodle is probably the grossest I've encountered thus far, however.

"They call things like this, that are changed by the G-strain…a 'Mutated G.'" "Well, that looks like a 'Mutated D-O-G' out there, to me," said Ray, without missing a beat.

Nobody laughed. It really wasn't funny, under any circumstance.

After searching a bit longer, Ashcroft finally unearthed what she was looking for: a small, white, round, rotund propane tank. At that exact moment, the Mega-Madonna latched its chops onto the top of the truck.

"AAAAAAAAAAAA!" screamed, like, everybody. People slid this way and that inside the vessel and prepared for their last moments.

With the vehicle between its teeth, the dwarfing dog then attempted to lift the Wagon off the ground. Lindsay watched nearby in deep satisfaction, really believing in her effed-up mind that Madonna was rescuing the more-or-less-screwed survivors.

Inside the truck, Gordon and Kay stumbled over to one side, while Simone and Ray flopped to the other. Nearly everyones' marbles were scrambled and lost at the moment…save for one.

"You literal bitch," muttered Dana to the mutt above as she drew a syringe from her waistband. "It was because of you that those zombies broke into the mall…because of you that I died that first time in Entrance."

She raised her right arm, with the needle in hand, straight up towards the dog's mouth above her. "I won't let you get me killed a second time."

And with that, she cast the syringe upward, its point driving directly into the roof of Madonna's mouth.

"AWARAWWARRAWARRR!" the unimaginable creature bellowed as it reared back from the needle's sting. It released the Speedwagon from its maw as it backpedaled towards its mistress, almost crushing her underpaw.

"Madonna, my _baby_…don't tread on me, sweetie!" cried Lindsay, dodging away from her beloved pet.

This development bought a couple of Alyssas the courage to act themselves. Ashcroft first picked herself up, then the aforementioned propane tank, and tossed it through the opening in the roof. She then hustled up the ladder and lifted it again, this time over her head as she faced the staggering beast.

"Here, you can chew on this instead!" she yelled as she hurled the tank with all her might. As she had hoped, the dog reacted by catching the explosive container in its teeth, quite obediently.

"Madonna, no, no, bad doggie! No…"

In response to Lindsay's reprimand, Madonna lowered her mouth low enough for the old woman to jump up and attempt to wrest the tank from the dog's jaws. The poodle held the tank fast, however, and lifted its head back up. As a result, Lindsay ended up suspended in midair, hanging from the propane tank for dear life.

"No, Madonna, NO!"

"Alyssa, the ampoule shooter, NOW!" shouted Ashcroft.

But Laurent was already emerging through the roof's shutter with the weapon. A heartbeat later, the striking redhead was standing next to her cousin, the small cannon in hand, aiming directly at the propane tank. She then said the one word she knew in Japanese, the one thing that Yuu didn't have to teach her.

"Sayonara."

WHSHHHHH

BLAAAAMM—ARRFFF?!—BLAMMM

The explosion occurred too quickly for either Alyssa or anyone else to see exactly what happened, but a frame-by-frame replay would reveal Madonna's cranium getting blasted into oblivion, and Lindsay Harris experiencing instantaneous vaporization.

Well, then again, not total vaporization. A moment later, when the smoke cleared enough to see, the cousins and the other survivors were extremely satisfied to view a flaming human skeleton prone on the ground, complete with grinning skull alight, along with the giant headless husk of a mutated mutt. The latter sort of resembled an oversized chocolate Easter Bunny with its head bitten off. Except it was a decapitated flesh-and-blood poodle.

The occupants of the Speedwagon had won the battle against the occupants of the station wagon.

Cheers erupted from the former vehicle as Ashcroft and Laurent embraced, Cindy and Shinji kissed, Ray and Simone necked all over the place, and Kay and Gordon…grasped each other's hands.

Yoko couldn't take it for another instant; she walked up to the man she desired, drew him close, and said, in Japanese:

" Yuu…I can't fight this feeling anymore. "

She then thoroughly jumped his bones, taking him down to the floor, enveloping his lips with her own.

The two enjoyed the ecstasy with all the others for several minutes. Yoko had triumphed, had finally achieved what she had longed for all these years. That which seemed to come so simple to people like Cindy, had eternally evaded her time and again. But Yuu was different; he understood her, he was like her, he was her…her soulmate.

And so the two Japanese lovers with the same first letter rolled around and around the truck, putting the other sweethearts to shame in their public display of affection. Yoko laughed for the first time in her life, reveling in Yuu's warmth and looking deep into his eyes…Yuu returned the giggles and guffaws, relishing the emotion as well and gazing into the magnificent O of Yoko's mouth…

And then he noticed the O of the ampoule shooter's barrel a couple of inches away.

"I've had it!" cried Laurent, shaking the cannon in her lover's face. "How could you do this to me?! After all we've had!!!"

Yuu slowly, carefully backed off of Yoko, his hands up in the air. Almost everyone else in the truck was frozen in terror along with him.

"You weren't like Brett and Jonathan and all those other Coloradan…assheads! Why, Yuu? WHY?!" Laurent's lust for blood had not been quenched, even with the deaths of the dog and its mistress. She wanted to kill again, and her next ICBM was aimed straight at her lover's heart.

"Laurent, put the ampoule shooter down. It's not worth it.

"Laurent…"

Alyssa Ashcroft slowly inched towards her cousin as she spoke.

"Alyssa…"

Alyssa Laurent's head turned slowly as she heard her first name. Yuu or someone else might have made a desperate dive for the cannon at that point—but this was a missile launcher inside of a small truck we were talking about. It was a kind of delicate situation, and rash maneuvers were not quite ideal.

"Alyssa…let it go."

The stunning, amazing-looking redhead looked her cousin in the eyes, then averted her eyesight downward and lost it. She hugged the ampoule shooter close to her chest as she bawled away, heartbroken.

The blonde, all-business Alyssa came forward, knelt, and embraced her relative as the scene was defused. An instant later, the commerce of intimacy that had been occurring all around them had commenced once again, out of a spirit of immense relief this time.

"I…I don't know what I did wrong…" sputtered Laurent as Ashcroft held her.

"It's not your fault. It's not your fault, honey. It's okay…you did so well today."

"Oh…Yuu…"

Laurent spilled several more tears as she found solace in her cousin's arms. Ashcroft rubbed her back reassuringly.

"We'll find you a good man, Alyssa. A good one, who won't do this to you. I know a couple of people. Maybe Kevin, or David…actually, nah, not those ass clowns, they won't do you any good. Hey, I've got someone just for you, come to think of it…he would be just perfect for you, I know it."

Alyssa Laurent perked up a bit at this, allowing a small smile to break through her sobs.

Hours later, the other civilian heroes from Raccoon: Kevin Ryman, George Hamilton, David King, Jim Chapman, and Mark Wilkins—the last of whom would be accidentally called "Brad" on several occasions, as he looked a bit like the DHS agent from the mall—showed up and helped get the Resident Evil Outbreak Speedwagon back into an operative condition. In no time, a convoy of exhausted yet existent survivors made their way out of Willamette at last.


	19. Mother Earth of the Middle East

JULY 20TH, 2007, 7:30PM

It was a comfort to Frank West as well as to his host that they could have dinner on such a lovely summer evening. They were there together to recount the past, but at the same time enjoy their repast in the present and relish one another's company. As the journalist looked across at Jennifer Gorman—that special, lucky lady privileged enough to share his company on this occasion—he could swear that he caught a twinkle of attraction in the woman's eyes.

"So, alright, you've told me all about how you've been getting on fine since the whole incident last year," Frank said. "It's great that you managed to get through teaching 12th grade English Literature another couple of semesters, and that you're good with your mortgage and your family and everything. But…I think, Jennifer, it might be time for us to get down to the nitty-gritty."

"Okay, that's fine," replied his meal mate, looking down, primly, at her place at the restaurant table. "And please…you can call me Jenny."

Frank looked at the vibrant woman, still wearing that orange vest from her time at the Park View. "Tell me—and I don't have a recorder on me going or anything, trust me—what happened while I wasn't there? What happened…when the government came at midnight, on that last day?"

Jennifer took a deep breath, collecting herself, and started to tell the story…several stories, to be exact. She started with the most fantastic, that of Cheryl Jones' daring break from the security area with the queen hidden in that whimsical pendant of hers, and that of Alyssa Laurent and other survivors being whisked away in some heavily armored truck. Then she spoke of Otis losing it and kidnapping Kay in a Special Forces chopper, and then of Russell Barnaby somehow disappearing even though he was presumed dead

"Amazing, Jenny," Frank huffed. "I wouldn't believe it if I heard it coming from anyone other than a survivor at the Park View."

Jennifer nodded, then told of other less exhilarating, but still powerful, things that occurred with the other survivors.

"A couple of interesting redemption stories, really, if you will," continued the young schoolteacher as she had a bit of her orange juice and some of her roll. Jilly's, the restaurant at which they were dining, had the best bread she'd tasted in a long time. After Jill's Sandwiches in Willamette closed down because of the outbreak there, its proprietor, Jill Valentine, invested in a Chili's branch in Coulee, Colorado—Jenny's hometown, not far from Willamette—and opened up shop there. The ex-S.T.A.R.S.woman modeled her restaurant after the franchise, but added some original flair of her own, based on some styles of cuisine that she preferred. And customers literally ate it up—they absolutely loved it.

"First there was the thing with Tad and Debbie," said Jennifer, after finishing her bread. "As you may have heard, Mindy came down with that terrible convulsive attack, from which Paul Carson, of all people, saved her."

"Yeah, Jen, I heard about that from Floyd when I visited him...must have been incredible to see."

"Mmhmm. Well, Taddy made a total ass of himself by going in that room right after Mindy recovered and calling Paul out, just because Paul was previously a threat in the mall before…before you intervened. Then Mindy stepped up and went to bat on behalf of Paul…and it was as if a real brawl were going to break out.

"But then Tad, a bigger fairy than Burt Thompson when it came to fighting, stepped down, apparently scared off by Mindy's reproach. But then…it was hours later…when the soldiers came…that Tad really redeemed himself.

Frank listened, his curiosity majorly piqued, as Jennifer went on. "Yeah…so…when the Forces came in…they yanked Debbie Willett by the hair and tried to pull her out that way. That's when Taddy shunted forward out of nowhere with a vicious jump kick that floored the goon, knocked his gun right out of his hands."

"Wow…I always knew the kid was pissed off…but I never would have thought he could come through like that." Frank had an idea of where Tad got the jump kick, though; most likely from that other "photographer" he encountered in Paradise, who captured the young guy and almost made him a larva's lunch. "Well, then what happened; did they…hurt him, in any way?"

"Oh, _did_ they…like, four or five soldiers came in and beat him down pretty bad. He was in traction for a while, so I heard…but he's coming out soon supposedly."

"That's something, Jenny. Tad's actually one on my list to visit in the near future." Frank took out a small black notebook of names and numbers of people he met in the mall, many of whom he visited over the course of the last year to lend moral and emotional support—as well as to get a bit more of their story. He'd visited about half of them so far, the relatively less interesting half to be exact. Not the wacky adventurous ones like Cheryl and Alyssa, that was for sure. "I'm sure Debbie must have been very grateful for that."

"Yes, well, she visited Tad in the hospital several times, and paid for a lot of his treatment. But it's really interesting, though…I should tell you about a couple of other people…"

"I'm all ears, Jenny…I'm aching to know about all this. I do know about Heather, I just visited the Tompkins family the other day…"

"Yeah, but before we get to that, did you hear about Barbara Barnaby—I mean, Patterson? Well, really, it's Barnaby, but…"

"No, no. Tell me, Jenny."

"Well…"

"Is everything alright here?" sounded a new voice, before Jennifer could go on.

"Jill!" said Frank jovially, getting up to embrace the woman cordially. Frank knew Jill from way back, from when he covered the zombie wars in Raccoon, you know. He'd interviewed some of the S.T.A.R.S. there, received the lowdown on all the Umbrella happenings and all that. "How the hell are ya?"

"Oh, things are doing well, thank you," replied the plucky zombie-executioner-turned-entrepreneur. "This place has been doing much better than my sandwiches joint in Willamette, and as a result I'm much happier now."

"Fan-tastic."

"Yeah." Jill looked at her patrons admiringly. "Well, I see you have a nice young lady with you, so…just wanted to say hello and everything."

"Oh, no problem at all," said Frank. "Hey, tell Chris I said hello, okay?"

"Y-yep. See ya."

As Jill started to walk back towards the kitchen of Jilly's, she thought about old Chris. Over the years she couldn't get him out of her mind. Carlos never measured up to him; neither did any of the other men she'd encountered since the turn of the millennium. She especially couldn't forget about him now, since his cousin, Chris Hines, worked for her as a chef in the back. Hines seemed like a good guy, and he was, really; clean-cut and things of that sort. Jill would have never guessed that he was violently mauled by monsters in Willamette, only to be revived by Russell Barnaby-Simms later on, with the old man's "super survivor serum"—but it didn't make the guy any less innocent and wholesome, with no agenda of his own.

This was more than one could say for the woman by the side of Chris Redfield, who was driving towards Jilly's and would be there in the next few minutes.

"So anyway, where were we," said Frank, pouring some more wine for himself and Jennifer. "Barbara, I think…?"

"Yeah…the whole thing about Barbara…it turned out that she was actually married to Russell for a long time. She never took his last name, which was actually 'Simms'—which he hid from the government for his own reasons—and she assumed the last name 'Patterson,' which I believe was her mother's maiden name, for her own reasons, which for now I can't divine.

"In any case, yeah, Barbara was actually around Russell's age, not long before the Park View incident…she was in her sixties, I think 60, to be exact. She snuck some of this concoction Russell made…this 'serum' which could supposedly revive the dead…and then turned twenty years younger. So she was 40 when we saw her at the mall."

"Huh; how about that."

"Yeah, but that's not the end of it. Oh…cheers," Jennifer said, stopping to offer a glass clink with Frank, who happily complied. "After the incident, Barbara got her hands on more of the serum, through Dana Simms, I believe, who was actually Russell's daughter-in-law…" She paused to take some wine.

"And?!" Frank couldn't wait to hear the end of this.

"…And now she looks 20. And she's a knockout, Frank. She grew her hair long…somehow lost all that weight to boot. She looks like goddamn Tomb Raider now."

"I can't imagine."

"Well, maybe you'll see for yourself, if you see her later on this year." Jennifer stopped to take in a long sigh and stretch. Frank absorbed the full effect of the young woman's beauty in that moment as her eyes were briefly shut. Her face was chiseled perfection, and the breasts were very pleasant. And, God that was right, she had an ass to die for; he's certainly have to look out for that when they left the restaurant.

Frank's reverie was interrupted by a rather irritating round of robotic clapping and chanting, on the part of several Jilly's employees, in celebration of someone's birthday across the dining room.

"God, I despise when they do that stuff," he said as he looked over to the birthday person. "The Nazi line up and recitation of that stupid rhyme, 'We know it's your birthday, we came here just to say, bla bla bla, on your special day, hey!' and all that BS. Even the waiters and waitresses look like they hate it. That's one thing Jill should have changed from the Chili's atmosphere."

"Well, you know I'm turning 28 today…" Jennifer allowed a small smile to escape her lips.

"Oh, are you now?" perked up Frank, a genuine look of surprise on his face, which he was good at faking. Frank did know…and he had just the set of employees, with just the right clap and chant, to help Jenny commemorate her spirit journey formation anniversary.

"Yes, Frank." She placed her hand in the center of the table, and Frank looked at it longingly. He'd been very polite to the survivors whom he'd visited, and never tried to make a pass or anything…but this one seemed interested in more than just…sharing stories.

Jill almost dropped the dishes in her hands when she saw him.

"Chris…"

Chris Hines turned for a second at hearing his name, but then knew better, looking back down into the chicken marsala he was preparing as his boss ran to his cousin and embraced him tightly. He could swear he heard Jill sob as she said his name again.

"Oh, Chris…it's so good to see you…"

"Same here, Jill, same here." The man before Jill—her co-original gangster of zombie horror survival—looked every bit as irresistible as he had almost ten years ago. The spiky hair, the broad shoulders…that Frank West kind of reminded her of him, though his facial features were too apelike in comparison. Chris Redfield was much more adorable than that. Jill hadn't seen enough of him in the past decade…and now was the time to start catching up.

Her heart sank into the giant-spidered sewers, however, as she noticed a young woman, swaddled in swarthy clothing, stride into the room.

"Oh," Chris said, extending his arm around the newcomer, "I'd like to introduce you to my…fiancee. Jill, this is Alebasi. Alebasi Lockes."

"It's a pleasure," said this "Alebasi" as she extended a hand beyond her all-encompassing clothes. Jill took it and shook it, icily.

"Yeah…nice to meet you."

"Alebasi's from Saudi Arabia. Her name means 'Mother Earth' in Arabic, so she's told me. She came here to study medical technology or something along those lines…isn't that right, 'Basi?"

"Yes, that is corrrrrect."

Jill looked at the other woman as she spoke. She appeared to be Muslim, as she was wearing the traditional burqa…but was that a Hispanic trill she just detected? "That sounds…very nice, Alebasi," she said.

"And she's also here to pay respects to her brother, Otilrac, who unfortunately passed away in the States not long ago," added Jill's beloved Chris.

"I see," said the owner of Jilly's. "Well, you guys make yourself at home here…everything's on the house for tonight. Let me know what you need and Hinesy and I'll be happy to serve it to you."

"Thanks, Jill." He stepped over to kiss her on the cheek cordially, which ignited her body more than any flame round could. "Okay, 'Basi, let's go sit on down."

Before the mysterious woman joined her betrothed, she said to Jill, "Thank you so much for your hospitality. If Ot-il-rrrrrac were alive, he too would be so grateful."

Jill watched the pair as they started upstairs to the special events area, which Jill had reserved for them. _There's something strange about that "Alebasi,"_ she thought. _What kind of Muslim surname is "Lockes," anyway? Just like, what kind of Hispanic last name is "Keyes"…like that woman who reportedly escaped the federal authorities a week ago…_

Jill put the name of Redfield's fiancée and the immigration escapee side by side in her mind. The realization opened up the mystery's deadbolt in her mind.

_…Oh no,_ thought Jill, watching her Chris go to dine with his deadly Desdemona in disguise.

"So then there was the matter of the Tompkinses…"

"Yeah, Jenny, I know of that, after just coming back from them…now _that_ was a story."

"Yes…it was incredible. If anyone really redeemed himself or herself that night…it was Heather. Is she out of the wheelchair yet?"

"No," said Frank. "She should be out in the next few weeks. If I had it my way, she'd be out now, or would have been out months ago."

"I wholeheartedly agree, Frank."

This from the woman who was assaulted with a cash register by the very same girl.

Jennifer could still recall it, so crystal in her mind. The soldiers coming in, brutishly dragging her out into the hallway of the survivor area…fondling her bust freely while another grunt tugged at the thong of the one twin, Pamela—the nice one, who wished to help everyone from neighbor Gordon to teacher Gorman. Then Heather, the heretofore selfish, thoughtless, insensitive twit—she went up and shoved the men as they were having their way with both her sister and her former teacher. She almost singlehandedly caused a riot back there, and she might've succeeded…had the Forces not suppressed the situation with gunfire.

The first and second shots went through Heather's arm and shoulder, nothing too severe relatively. But the third passed between vertebrae, nearly severed her spine. She was rushed to intensive care shortly after leaving the mall, and fought for her life for days on end. Jennifer and Pamela stood vigil by Heather's bed all that time, along with her parents, Hester and Pavelov Tompkins. They all rejoiced so when the girl opened her eyes once more on September 29th, 2006.

"…She had to be in a wheelchair for a long time, till her spine could fully heal," Jennifer recounted. "Heather had a steady stream of Cortizone shots and coffee creamer treatments…but it's all gonna pay off soon, I think."

"She'll be walking again in no time, Jenny. The way I saw her the other day, she's been holdin' up just fine."

"It's wonderful, Frank. Heather…might've saved my life, on that occasion." A tear began to form in the young teacher's eye. "She and her sister are inseparable now…they look out for each other so much. It's so…beautiful…I wish I had them both in my class again."

"Well, I'm sure you'll see them time and again in the years to come," assured Frank. "The bonds we've all formed, from that experience in Park View…we'll all be friends for life now." _And more than that in some cases, I hope,_ Frank thought naughtily.

"Yes. You should see the letter Pamela sent to me last week. She's such an eloquent writer, eloquent person in general…I think she'd make a wonderful English professor…it's what she wants to do."

Frank nodded, and was about to say something in return when suddenly the clapping for which he was waiting started up from the rear of the restaurant. The birthday girl before him would be the next victim of the goofy, grating rhymes…

…but as the man listened to the controlled claps, his back to the incoming birthday wishers, he thought it sounded kind of unusual…like the hands coming together were a bit too much in synch, in unison…

…and oddly muffled as well—as if the hands were wearing gloves.

Mutter mutter mutter OHMMMMMM

This wasn't the crappy, corny birthday chant of Chili's. No; rather, it was another, horribly familiar, chant.

Frank turned around just in time to see five men decked out in yellow raincoats and green masks walking quickly towards him and Jennifer, the one in the lead carrying a cake impaled with dynamite.

"Jennifer, get AWAY!" the photojournalist cried as he grit his teeth and picked her up over his head. He managed to heave his dinner date away just in time as

BOOOOOOOOOM

the cuisine crashing Cultists' cake detonated, splattering the man with icing and sending him flying.

When Frank dusted himself off, he instinctively picked up a chair and started swinging. He wished he'd had a more effective melee weapon—or certainly something ranged, in order to avoid that gas these guys wielded on occasion—but he'd have to make do with what he'd had at his disposal.

Cultists were knocked this way and that by the fatal piece of furniture, falling to the ground in a collective not unlike tenpins. Frank noticed that more and more of the fanatics were coming his way by the second, and soon he would be overwhelmed.

"Gah," was all he could say as he was soon surrounded by a yellow aura of iniquity.

BOOOOOOOOOM

Upstairs, one Jill and two Chrises reeled from the same explosion that rocked Frank off of his feet. The Raccoon Chris' date was with him just a second ago…but she mysteriously vanished just as the others were recovering from the shock of the blast.

Jill ran her fingers through her wondrous brown hair. "I don't know what happened!" she exclaimed, looking around her establishment in a daze.

Redfield furrowed his brow as he made a realization. "'Basi, where's…'Basi?"

The other Chris looked at his cousin gravely, assuming the worst. "Well, I'm sorry, but she's probably…"

Jill faked a mournful gaze. "No…" she pretended to lament…though inside she was secretly rejoicing.

OHMMMMMMM

"What is that?" the woman asked, suddenly afraid. The ominous intone sounded as if it were coming from the second floor bathroom, just yards away.

Redfield opened his mouth to respond, but Hines beat him to it. "I'll go and check!" he said raspily.

"Okay," said the other Chris. "I'll take the stairs down to the first floor. Jill, you stay here, in case of an emergency."

As the local Chris walked off towards the bathroom to check on the sound, the visiting Chris started off towards the stairs. "Chris…" said Jill, causing both men to turn. Hines saw that his boss was addressing Redfield, though, and continued on his way.

Redfield looked at his former partner, lost in her captivating eyes as she said, "Take care." The man acknowledged her admonition by giving an awkward, spastic salute, then turned on his heel and walked stiffly toward the stairwell.

The golden coats were closing in on Frank by the second. In another instant they would pounce upon him, take him prisoner. He put down his almost broken chair and prepared for an nth degree lariat.

His concentration was broken out of nowhere, however, by a stool crushing against the face of one yellow zealot.

"Frank, look out!" cried Jennifer as she assisted her hero, brandishing the seat with all her might. She was a handholder at the mall, the kind of gal that wouldn't use a weapon if her life depended on it. Now, however, she was throwing down for the man she admired…and perhaps adored. Especially considering that she was up against the enemies that traumatized and nearly destroyed her at the Park View, it was really something.

The journalist ducked down into a forward roll as Jennifer did her thing, propelling himself towards the restaurant's kitchen. He picked up some dishes lying around and chucked them at the attacking fanatics, the ceramic saucers putting his enemies down for the count as they connected. Frank was a living clay pigeon launcher, basically, a shinobi shooting shurikens, as he flung out one dining disc after another.

"I'm ending this fanatic fest once and for all!" yelled another man as he bounded down the stairs. Frank was satisfied to see Chris Redfield jumping back into action, pulling out his combat knife and putting down a few of the Cultists himself.

The mall messiah then noticed a blender behind him on a counter. He ran back towards Jennifer, who despite her nerves of steel and stool was beginning to become overtaken, despite Redfield's assistance.

"Jen, I'm gonna cook something up real fast, to help you, okay?" said Frank.

"What?" She couldn't hear him over all that chanting, and her busting of heads with her "seat work," so to speak.

Frank didn't try to address her again, but simply grabbed a cream pie that she ordered right before her cake was to come out, as well as her glass of orange juice. He quickly poured the contents of the glass into the pie, then took off for the blender.

Chris Hines braced himself as he neared the second floor bathroom. What was the source of that sound, that groaning and…chanting?

The answer came slashing at him out of the darkness as a human yellowjacket charged at him with knife in hand.

Hines barely had time to sidestep, but sidestep he did as he narrowly avoided the incoming Cultist. His enemy crashed into a perfectly set table behind him as he noticed a possible weapon he could use.

The once-dead survivor reached for the plastic bottle of Heinz ketchup lying on another table, then approached his foe. He lived up to his last name—at least in the way it sounded, if not spelled—by whapping the bottle several times against the mask of the monster before him. 57 swings later and the Cultist was down for the count.

"Well, I guess these are some of the other 'varieties' that the brand was talking about," he said as he continued to grip the bottle.

Suddenly another figure emerged from the shadows. Hines brought the bottle up again, ready to attack…then lowered it as he saw who it was.

"Alebasi!" the man said as he saw the burqa-ed babe alight. "Thank God you're safe! We thought you were…"

Hines didn't get the time to finish his sentence, however, as the woman brought out a small device from her obsidian digs and used it to spray the hapless guy. The man began coughing and choking as the gas entered his system, yet he still somehow had enough energy to stagger towards the bathroom, where he sought to escape his cousin's fiancée, now his nemesis.

With the last of his strength before passing out, he used his ketchup bottle to squirt his attacker's name on the wall opposite the bathroom mirror.

One minute and several stool swings later downstairs, a small red container inexplicably popped out of the kitchen blender. Frank mechanically caught it and flipped it to his date. "Drink it, NOW!" he hollered.

Jennifer caught it and downed the substance in the seconds following, just as a raincoat made a grab for her. The foe found his hands sliding off his sweater, as if some force field were keeping the woman from being seized…or even touched.

"Yeah, you're 'Untouchable,' now, ha ha!" yelled Frank from across the room.

Jennifer smiled at the man, then looked to the small sea of emerald masks before her. "Looks like you're not gonna grab me this time!" she almost cackled, as she began to work her way through the Cultist mob. As she got closer to Frank and looked back at Redfield, however, she realized that neither man was so "untouchable," though, and attacked the enemies accordingly, this time with a decorative cactus sitting near an emergency exit door.

As quills of the cactus found their way into various insidious slickers, Frank shouted, "Jennifer, just get into the kitchen and hide! I'll go help Redfield!"

When her plant was about to bust, the woman nodded her head and heeded the man. "Okay," she replied simply.

Frank joined the Redfield melee, watching for protruding knives on the part of the raincoats as he progressed. Fortunately, it didn't look as if most, if any, of the bad guys were carrying any more dynamite or even gas, so they would likely be easy to take down. The journalist nabbed an acoustic guitar leaning against a table and had at the Cultists once more.

PLUNG

"Chris, you can get back upstairs…see to your friends and your girl. I'll PLUNG take care of these PLUNG Cultists down PLUNG here."

"You sure, Frank?"

"PLUNG Yeah. Go on ahead."

Redfield sheathed his knife as he set back up the stairs, looking back down once as he saw Frank plung-ing into battle, bopping heads with the instrument.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Jennifer discovered something she thought she'd never encounter again, something which made all the morose mall memories flood back to her.

A crate, just her size, opened and ready…for someone just like her.

She looked over her shoulder, and sighed in relief as she saw no foes near her. She decided to face her fear head-on and looked into the wooden box, as if wishing to stare into a void leading to the underworld itself.

What she found inside surprised her; she hadn't thought of ever seeing an object like that within. But the sight didn't stop her from reaching in and taking the thing.

Jill moved away from the stairwell and towards the second floor restroom as she thought she heard the strange sound of gas hissing from somewhere. Was there a leak in her restaurant? God, she hoped not; whoever was downstairs might cause the whole place to go up. She went to check on the noise.

As she went inside the bathroom, she first noticed the cook Chris crumpled on the floor. "Hinesy!" She ran to him and hunched down, checking to make sure he was not seriously injured.

"Alebasi…" was all the man could say at first, his eyelids all but obscuring his irises from the woman as he slipped in and out of unconsciousness. "Alebasi…"

Then Jill looked up and saw what was scrawled on the wall via condiment.

ALEBASI was written in red, and the heroine assumed the worst, thinking it was done in Hines' bodily fluid. _I hope this is not Chris's blood!_ said Jill's inner Barry Burton.

Then she saw the ketchup bottle in Hinesy's hand, and puffed a breath of relief. A second later, however, she started to feel uneasy again when Hines continued his litany:

"Alebasi…Alebasi…"

Jill glanced at the ketchupped message again as Hines' mumbling became all the more intense.

"Alebasi…Alebasi…Redrum…"

The woman looked around the bathroom, to the grimy stalls, to the closet open just a crack…then to the mirror, and the reflection of the message.

ISABELA

A door banged open nearby as Isabela Keyes came out of the closet with gun in hand. Her burqa disguise was nowhere to be seen as she flounced forward with her eternal frilly white shirt and hot black pants.

"Get back, Jill Valentine, or I swear I'll shoot you!" the terrorist spat. "You S.T.A.R.S. are nothing compared to the psychos and other things I encountered in the Willamette Mall. I could take you down in seconds flat; don't try me. Besides, you don't want to hurt me in any way: if I don't get out of here, the truth dies with me."

"The truth about what?" countered Jill. Really; she was so sick about hearing of this Willamette thing over the past year. It was so overexposed, and old news; who cared, anymore?

Isabela nonetheless continued, "The truth that will vanish into darkness if you don't let me do my job. I am here to exterminate all survivors of that incident, starting with Jennifer Gorman. Frank's being here is a bonus…I can off him too in the process."

The spicy Santa Cabezan started toward Jill, the handgun before her wobbling with excitement. "Now, I'm just going to keep you and 'Hinesy' here for a little while, as my yellow followers and I set to our task…"

LATCH-T…B-BANG

The woman was suddenly interrupted by her duped fiancé, who had properly opened and calmly closed the bathroom door as he entered, just as he politely done with other doors while embroiled in the crisis at Spencer Mansion and other such areas of conflict.

"Alebasi?" he said as he recognized his love by her eyes, the only part of her that was not concealed by her disguise. "Your burqa…"

"Was all a lie!" cried Isabela as she ran and grabbed Jill, placing the butt of the handgun to the female S.T.A.R.S.' star's temple. "Saudi Arabian, hah! I'm as Santa Cabezan as they come, you fool! And now the little lady here is going to get it…unless you do exactly as I instruct."

Redfield put his hand to his eyes in disbelief. "But you said…you said Saudi Arabia…was blessed with nature, and that you were named after it…Mother Earth. It all rang so real to me…are you gonna tell me, now, that Otilrac was a lie, too?"

"Don't you EVER mention my brother again!" yelled the imam-turned-mami, pressing her handgun against Jill to the point where the other woman's head started to tilt downward. "I'LL KILL YOU RIGHT AFTER I PUT A BULLET IN THIS BITCH'S BRAIN!"

Chris Redfield could do nothing as he watched one of his life's loves threaten another.

Chris Hines, however, was ready to act.

Unknown to Isabela, one of the unintended effects of Russell Simms' "super survivor serum" was that it rendered its subjects less susceptible (though not totally invulnerable) to things such as liquids...or gases…intended to debilitate the subject's system. As a result, Hinesy was staggered by the Santa Cabezan's gas…but not knocked out by it. Now, moments later, Hines's faculties were almost fully functional once again. He inched a bit closer to Isabela and Jill, moving between the terrorist's spread legs.

"IT'S TIME TO KISS CHRIS GOODBYE, JILL, I…AY AY…"

Isabela's grip on Jill suddenly relaxed as the hot-pantsed monster clutched at her groin, reeling from the uppercut Chris Hines just delivered. "Otra vez…no puedo tener hijos ahora," she muttered as she slumped to the ground, lamenting in Spanish that she wouldn't be able to have children now, between Frank's kick in Denver and now this.

"We wouldn't have been having any children at this point anyway, 'Basi…or should I say, Isabela," said Redfield, understanding her foreign tongue as he closed in on his woman. Before he reached her, however, she picked up her handgun lying nearby and fired.

"Chris, NO!" shouted Jill.

The bullet went through the man's shoulder, causing him to hunker down in agony. Hines and Valentine rushed to his aid as Isabela crawled away.

"Don't let…Isabela get away…" Redfield said as he gritted through the pain.

"We're not gonna concern ourselves with her right now, hon," replied Jill as she took out a small aerosol-sized can. "Let me see that wound, come on."

SST SST

Hines looked on in amazement as the can's spray instantaneously absolved the wound, making the gash and the bullet within disappear.

"God I love that first-aid spray," said Chris Redfield as he rubbed his arm and leaned back onto the bathroom tile. "Have to get myself some more of that when I get the chance…"

"Yes, well…" said Jill, taking out a green sprig and beginning to crawl on top of the man she loved, "there's time for that…and time for this as well. Let's indulge in…a bit of the herb…as we did back in '98." She waved the herb in Redfield's face before they kissed. _Alebasi_ who? thought the man as he passionately enjoyed his first true love.

Hines looked admiringly at the couple, and a bit hungrily at the herb. He'd heard of the Raccoon herbs before…used for medicinal purposes, supposedly, but everyone knew better. _Hey, bring that over here!_ his mind cried out regarding the small plant as the other two restroom occupants slobbered all over one another.

_Ah, well,_ he resigned himself, as he started to pick himself up and leave the lovebirds alone. He thought of his own girlfriend, Jill Gooldn, and how they would hopefully similarly get it on later that evening. She was the mustard to his ketchup, after all.

Jennifer remained against the far wall of the kitchen as Frank began to finish off the last of the remaining Cultists. Soon, she knew, the two would be clear of this terror, and they would move on from it, just as they had from the Park View last year.

"Jennifer Gorman!" cried a voice from the kitchen doorway. The emanator of that statement stepped, fully into the room—or really limped, so it seemed.

The schoolteacher looked over to see a somewhat familiar Hispanic woman brandishing a pistol in her direction. The woman was from somewhere…maybe the mall…Jennifer couldn't pinpoint. She looked over and saw Frank once again semicircled by another six Cultists, and wondered who was in the greater danger.

"You see that crate, don't you?" said the Hispanic woman, pointing at the wooden container between the ladies. "Yes…brings back memories, doesn't it? I've spoken with several of the yellow coats you saw out there…they've told me of how fond you were of this box. Well, my friend, you're about to become much more acquainted with it than ever before…" She stepped closer to the orange-clad survivor.

"I know who you are…Isabela Keyes," replied Jennifer. "You're the med tech from the mall—the one who helped out the government and my Frank."

"What do you mean, 'your' Frank?!"

"That's none of your concern. In any case, though, Isa, you're not getting any closer to me today." Jennifer crossed her arms defiantly at the Santa Cabezan even as the latter took another step toward the former, then another.

"How can you be so sure, Miss Gorman? In another two or three paces I'll...wha?!"

Isabela's verbal bravado was cut short when suddenly she felt a force pushing against her, down into the crate. As her back settled against the bottom of the wooden container, she realized that the trapper had now somehow become the trappee.

"You're pretty careless, Isa, you know that?" said Jennifer, as she leaned over the side of the box to speak. "You leave a lot of things around, and it proves to be your undoing. Frank told me all about your PDA at the immigration building in Denver, how you left that around…and now…this."

Jennifer held up the small purple cylinder that contained Isabela's newer brand of perfume. She'd read about how the terrorist had escaped from federal custody with the help of some substance that knocked human beings down when they came in close contact with it. Frank told her about the green perfume she made to repel the zombies on their way out of the mall. Jennifer put two and two together when she saw the new fragrance resting at the bottom of the crate.

"While you were likely terrorizing others here at Jilly's, I decided to help myself to some of your purple people perfume," she said. "Seems like it fits me just perfectly…it looks as if it's had quite the effect on you, anyway."

"You can't…you can't do this…" protested the terrorist.

"But I've already done it, my dear. Oh look, here comes one of your followers now."

Jennifer backed just one step away, which still preserved Isabela within her perfume's thrall, as Frank threw the last Cultist standing over the counter into the kitchen. Said Cultist, who was incidentally the only one strapped down with dynamite, careened towards Isabela, landing precisely on top of her inside the crate.

"Arriba! Arriba!" cried the poor Santa Cabezan, yelling at her follower in Spanish to "Get up! Get up!" "Arri—"

"—vederci," finished Jennifer in Italian, as she took the crate's lid and slammed it down.

"PACHA…BOOOOOOOOOM"

Frank flew into the kitchen with fire extinguisher in hand, spraying the area and dousing small flames here and there. Out of nowhere, Jennifer jumped out, and was almost also blasted by the surprised journalist. He lowered the nozzle at the last second, however, and the next thing he felt was the teacher's tongue down his throat.

"Take me home, Frank," Jennifer said breathily, her hands reaching around to the back of his pants. "It's getting…kind of…late."

"Yes, Miss Gorman," he said first-grader-ly, returning the favor with his own deft palms. A beat later, he added, "I wonder about Jill and the others…"

"They're just fine, ma'am."

Frank and Jennifer looked over to see Chris Hines by the bottom of the stairs. "You all can be on your way, I'll look after my boss and my cousin."

"Thanks, Chris," said Frank, giving the young guy a thumbs-up as he carried Jennifer in his arms towards his stolen convertible.

Hinesy looked back up the stairs, trying to imagine what sort of natural and herbal highs that Jill and the other Chris must have been experiencing at the moment. It looked as if his employer would be his relative's Valentine. Forget Christmas in July; this was a midsummer night's nightmare turned wonderful dream for at least two couples.

_Make that three,_ the young man thought as he knocked off for the evening. _Miss Jill Gooldn, here I come!_

"So…it's been a while for me," said Jennifer from her bathroom, dolling and primping herself up a bit after a thorough make-out session with her new man. "I hope you don't mind I've been…somewhat out of practice."

"Ahh, it's nothing," said Frank, as he admired himself in the full-length mirror in the teacher's bedroom. "It's been a little bit for me, as well." The truth was, actually, Frank had been pretty good with his…equipment.

But he'd never fired at a person.

In fact, he could hardly contain himself, bunching into a ball onto Jennifer's bed as he savored his impending first time. Finally, after all this survivor-saving and psycho-stopping, he was going to get the reward the so richly deserved. He lifted his head up with pride as he knelt on the soft mattress.

"Oh…and one thing, Frank. You _do_ have protection, don't you? I don't…give myself, freely…unless you've got it with you."

The saint and stud clenched his teeth as he heard Jennifer's last statement. He looked to his homeless person's clothing hanging over Jennifer's vanity's chair…but he knew it would be no use to search it.

Between the journalist, the Cultists, and the Chrises (who were prepared for their respective Jills), Frank West was the only man Jennifer had encountered that evening who didn't have a raincoat.

As he continued to kneel on the bed, something rose up within him. For the first time since the instant after he defeated the military officer on the tank in Willamette, and for the second time in his entire life, a primal, animalistic scream began to work its way through Frank's lungs and out into the potpurried air of Jennifer Gorman's bedroom.

"EEEEERRRRREEEEEAAAAARRRRRAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!"

ANECDOTE COMPLETED!

BUT…

ENDING A: FRANK THE GIGOLO

Though Frank initially wished to marry again after his experience with Isabela, he later discovers that he could find fulfillment just through visiting various women several times each year, wining and dining them, and then "escorting" them to a safe, intimate place…but not any security room, mind you. He does this most often with about nine women, including Jennifer Gorman, Janet Star, Michelle Feltz, Sally Mills, Debbie Willet, Mindy Baker, Kelly Carpenter, Rachel Decker, and Jolie Wu. None of these girls ever marry, themselves, so satisfied are they with Frank's "services." And thus it works out rather well for all.

ENDING B: FRANK THE NONAGAMIST

Frank decides to marry all of the abovementioned nine women at once, thus becoming a polygamist or, more precisely, a "nonagamist" (one who marries nine spouses). Things are very orderly, as Kelly Carpenter builds the Wests' house, Rachel Decker erects the veranda out back, Sally Mills does the shopping, Mindy Baker does the baking, Debbie Willett does the dishes etc. Frank spends all his days in the backyard chopping down trees with his small chainsaws, while Janet Star makes sure to buy books that would keep the tools sharp and enhanced. Frank also makes sure not to have his own personal "equipment" get out of practice either.

ENDING F: FRANK THE REPROBATE

After several single marriages, each of which end in divorce, Frank owes child support to Jennifer, Janet, Michelle and Mindy, and is locked in child custody battles with Kelly, Sally, and Debbie. With the journalist having sired 53,594 boys and girls, there is no end in sight to the legal imbroglio. On top of this, a restraining order is filed against Frank by Rachel (too many double lariatsdomestic violence), and the one-time hero is eventually abandoned by the woman for her best friend Jolie. The two ladies reach a plateau of happiness with one other that they could never realize with Burt, Aaron, or Frank.

In other news, although both Chrises marry both Jills (Redfield/Valentine and Hines/Gooldn, respectively), and remain married throughout all these possible endings, in this particular reality Redfield is slapped with an order to pay alimony to Alebasi Lockes, even though Chris never married her, "'Basi" never actually existed, and the woman who assumed that identity is deceased.

ENDING Z: FRANK THE EUNUCH

While visiting Susan Walsh, Frank is duped into marriage as the old woman tells him she is the heiress to a billion-dollar hard candy empire. In reality, however, Susan manages MasSusan's, a massage parlor on the edge of Willamette, and brainwashes Frank and his nine girlfriends with the help of the book Sean Keanen used for his Cult (which Susan actually lended to him long ago). Within weeks of their marriage, Susan establishes Frank as the front desk guy for the parlor, and makes the nine women in his life masseuses for her clients. Frank is forced to wear the spiked collar that Kent Swanson might have placed upon him, had the journalist failed to save Tad Hawthorne…complete with chain running up into the ceiling of the parlor. When Frank is not literally bound to his desk position, he is made to walk his elderly wife from place to place…which is maddening, as the hand clasp between the two breaks every three feet or so.

And yet he did not complain that his biddy was dull, as he was under her spell and, after all, she was still his very own Susan Walsh-West, through and through.


	20. Origin of the Shining Star

_Nothing better have happened to my sandwich establishment,_ Jill thought as she shouldered her grenade launcher and sheathed her knife, expecting the worst.

After 1998 and the deletion of Raccoon City from the United States map, she resigned herself to be zombie-free for the remainder of her existence. She hid out in another mountainous region, in the Centennial State this time and for the last ten years or so. She found soon after arriving in the area that she enjoyed exploring the slopes of Aspen much more than those of Arklay, and so she stayed, even deciding to change he luck entirely and go from law enforcement officer to business establishment entrepreneur. It paid off…for a while anyway.

Then, all of a sudden, Jill discovered that they just couldn't stay away. The undead were back in her life like supernatural stalkers, and as if to more than make up for their absence in her world over the past decade, they were back in exponential amounts. No more of this two here and three there; no, no, now we were talking "two or three" as in thousand, or even ten thousand.

Jill easily worked her way past the National Guard barricades (using the sewers and, of course, neutralizing various oversized arachnids in the process) and reached Willamette Mall around the morning of September 20th. When she reached her restaurant, in the small nook in Paradise Plaza right near Colby's, she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

Two enormous monsters, which she never dreamed of encountering, were before her.

The first was the killing machine she once knew as Nemesis…oh, God, how could it have survived? But it was there, all tentacles and teeth, reigning at nine feet tall, ten feet away from her.

Jill wasn't aware that this incarnation of Nemesis was a gift to her out of scorn by Carlos Oliveira, a would-be lover of hers whom she instead spurned at the last second. He was nice but "not her type," she decided, even though he saved her ass various times back in 1998. What she didn't know was, not only was he a mercenary, but also an amateur madman geneticist as well. Carlos was Spanish for "Charles," which can be shortened to "Chuck" or "Chucky"; and just like Chucky in his myriad of movies, Carlos rebuilt Nemesis, a living horror sequel, out of revenge for Jill's having rejected him. First Nemesis would go after Jill again…then it would get her lover, that spiky-haired bastard Chris Redfield, and then maybe get his nephew Chris Hines while the monster was at it, since the latter Chris was supposedly living in Willamette as well.

As a small, cruel, bitter joke as well, Carlos gave the reanimated thing a new prime directive in addition to its previous objectives: hunt down any woman who was exceptionally erotically stimulating.

The other monster before Jill was a bit further away, but was all the more dangerous…especially because he was in her store, her baby. This beast was indescribable. While Nemesis was out there in the heat of the Plaza, mowing and chowing down on zombies left and right, this…creature (how could she classify him?) was devouring everything in her eatery. What he lacked in stature, he more than made up for in girth; he must have been five humanoids wide, with as much of an appetite. The checkered plaid hues of his hide rivaled those of the Nemesis' red-gray scaly skin in its pure hideousness. The sideburns that outlined the countenance of this organism were much more frightening than the scars that were burned into the Nemesis' features. Jill was thankful that this…animal was not as near to her as the other monster, even though he (it?) was threatening her livelihood.

Jill had to deal with the more immediate threat, however. With an energetic shrug she unloaded the grenade launcher into her hands and prepared for battle with Nemesis once more.

"You're just the master of undying, aren't you," she said, under her breath to her arch nemesis.

"STARS," the beast returned. It was originally created to hunt the special crack team of zombie hunters, known as "STARS."

Jill tensed, then prepared to fire.

CRAAAAAAAAASH!!!

"Janet! Janet! Don't go that way! There's probably even more in there!"

Although Lilly called after her best friend again and again, there was just no stopping Janet. She was tired of all these zombies and zanies; there was no way she was going along with those jailbird jackasses in their jeep. Kay and Kelly could do what they wanted; but Janet Star was no fool. She was making a break for Paradise.

As Janet staggered into the plaza, panting, heaving, with her BFFFF (best freakin frightened friend forever) following close behind, both Jill and Nemesis turned their heads. Jill just saw two scared survivors.

Nemesis saw one harmless human; the other, however, registered humongous pink circles on his built-in radar mechanisms, just below the sternum area.

"STARS," was all Nemesis could say, in abject astonishment.

Jill furrowed her brow, a bit perplexed at her enemy's behavior.

"Janet Star! What will it take to convince you that this plaza is no better than any of the other plazas…" Lilly started once more, going on and on.

All Nemesis could see were pink circles. And that name…just like his former targets. Yes, it all fit.

"STARS…" Nemesis looked at Jill.

"STARS…" Nemesis looked at the chamber of limitless zombies before him.

Then he looked back to the pink circles.

"STARS…STARS…

"STAR."

Nemesis pointed his tentacle straight at Janet.

_Oh NO,_ Jill thought, shaking her bereted head. Now innocent humans were in the beast's path. She had to take it down, now.

She fired a grenade, then another, then another.

No effect.

Carlos must have planned for all of her classic patented attacks.

"STAR," Nemesis repeated, going straight for Janet. Lilly froze in terror, her usual frowzy face becoming a frieze of frazzledness.

"STAR." It was seven feet away...six…five.

"STAR."

Even Jill was a statue at this point; she was out of ideas. Maybe her knife…nah. Like that ever worked for her before.

"STA…"

"STARVING!"

Nemesis' eyes were slits of surprise as the other beast burst through the window nearby, bounding toward the monster with a vengeance. "STARVING! I'm STARVING here!!!"

The other beast that made Jill so afraid was indeed very, very hungry. And those tentacles the nine foot tall monster sported…they looked like just so many good jumbo calamari, all uncurled out.

"I'M STARVING!!!!!"

Unstoppable, the obese oddity seized upon Nemesis in an instant, clamping down on the monster's outstretched arm with razor sharp jaws. The poor monster was helpless as the other beast thoroughly enjoyed its repast, finishing the meal in minutes flat.

Janet and Jill and Lilly just stood around the thing, wondering what to do.

Then, a moment later, Janet was the first to react. With hearts in her eyes larger than the imposing bifocals surrounding them, she embraced the creature. "Thank you, oh, thank you…" She kissed the unfathomable being profusely, now on the forehead, now on the cheeks, now unimaginably on the lips.

"You…you saved my life," Janet bubbled, irretrievably in love. "What can I ever do to repay you? I'm yours. Will you…will you be mine?" A minute passed, and, possibly out of temporary insanity, though who knew, with Janet: "Will you marry me?"

The beast craned his head and looked her full in the eye. Then it spoke.

"Maybe…Can you cook?"

And so it was that, within days of the survivor's exodus from Willamette Mall, Janet Star found love, and finally shined. She was in the spotlight at last; Kay and Kelly would be envious for all eternity. She went from being a star to becoming a shining star.

Or, more accurately, Janet Star-Shiner.


	21. StarWalsh Episode 53,594

(This took me like forever and a day to do; all of the characters (except for Kelly, ironically) have nicknames that are takeoffs on the great saga; I'll post a master character list with corresponding names between DR and the saga if anyone wants to know)

(I used some license with the characters and their roles; I KNOW, of course, that Qui-Gon and Leia have no relationship in the films, and that Han Solo does not fight Bultar Swan, and that Yoda is on Dagobah and not Endor…but I couldn't really do a one-to-one correspondence between DR and SW like that; so I molded it to fit where the characters are in DR)

(Also, I know that there are some other things too, like Jessie doesn't sound like Boss Nass (though she does have a line or two of his), and Isabela actually says a couple of Brad's lines, and I heard that the laser swords in DR are not based on Jedi swords but based on Mega Man Zero's sword…but again I just used a bit of fanfic writer's license, without hopelessly distorting the thing beyond recognition (I hope, anyway:)))

Not terribly too long ago in a shopping mall relatively close by…

STAR/WALSH EPISODE 53, 594: THE PLAZA MENACE

The survivor sectors had recently ended their state of civil war. Among other battles, the Al Fresca Alliance had defeated the Entrance Troopers' attempt at mutiny for lack of comestible commodities. Other conflicts resulted in eventual stalemates, such as the protracted battles in De-Bo-Rah, the survivor sector ruled by Empress Willetto of the Wonder Colony. Meanwhile, in McKendor—a sector dominated by an emperor in overalls—a young woman clad in duds and conversant in dialect reminiscent of 1980s culture, and destined to be a great heroine, ponders her future as well as her past lineage…

SEPTEMBER 21ST, 6:00PM

"This place is way grody," Kelly said to Janet as she looked at her surroundings, wondering about what would become of them in the coming hours. Whether they would be saved, whether they would starve, things of that sort.

"Meesa thinks we gonna get out soon, Kell," her friend responded. "General Gramps saya the Ed Guy come in matter of hours."

Kelly rolled her eyes. Why did her best buddy have to hit her head on the way through the Wonder Colony wormhole? The way she talked now made her sound like an overgrown child…or toddler…or fetus.

It wasn't as if Janet hadn't had enough problems to begin with, either. Because of the endowments that the heavens decided to bestow upon her, she had to endure certain names and epithets behind her back, such as "Jug Jug" and the like. Kelly envied her friend's physiology, yet felt sorry for her at the same time.

Before the young woman could say another thing to her fellow stranded compatriot, the gate to McKendor was majestically thrust open with much ceremony. In strode Jessie McCarney, or as some called her, "Boss Jess," because of her constant barking of orders to various survivors in the myriad sectors.

The dainty yet powerful authority figure pointed a finger straight at Kelly.

"You," she began, her eyes looking to fire lasers at the girl, "it is time for you…time to fulfill your destiny…time to discover your true origins."

"I…I like don't understand…"

"You, Kelly Carpenter, seek the answers to your identity…your national heritage…your original bloodline. You will discover the truth if you accept what fate has called upon you to do."

Kelly blinked several times. _This was a gnarly development, very killer,_ she thought…but how did the buxom blonde know of her quest? For nineteen long years, Kelly had been searching for her true parents, as well as the nature of her nationality. When asked, she always responded that she was a "mutt"—but she wasn't aware of any of the components of her muttage. Did Boss Jess have the answer?

She thought about it for several seconds—whether to trust the bodacious bimbette or not—then made her decision. "Fer sure, I'll go," Kelly said.

"It is good," Jess responded, that weird smirk she always had crossing her face for the umpteenth time. "A time of great danger has befallen us, and you have been chosen to lead us into battle with unbridled evil. It is not known if all survivors shall survive this conflict."

"Yousa mean people gonna _die?_" Janet interposed, overhearing the conversation.

Boss Jess crinkled her brow in disgust at Janet. "I don't like you. You think you're so smart. You think your brain is so big. All that's big about you is something else, closer to your sternum than your cranium."

Janet was dumbfounded, with nothing else intrusive to say, although Boss Jess' calling another woman out on her frontal assets was like the pot calling the kettle charcoal.

The blonde boss then waved her hand for Kelly to follow. "Come, young one. For you to be prepared for the fray before you, you must engage in much training. I shall take you to your first teacher, who shall instruct you in the ways of the mystical toy laser sword. The speediest way to Crossusvent, where your teacher resides, is through the survivor sectors' core. Now let us go."

As the two crossed the ginormous galaxy that lay between McKendor and Crossusvent, Boss Jess reflected on what an unsavory character the presiding mentor was. She had spent a semester abroad in the United Kingdom in college, and had picked up some of the lingo while there. Applying it in this instance, Jess referred to the man whom Kelly was about to visit as Otis—Wankin' Otis.

"It is an honor to teach such an enterprising young lady," Otis said graciously as he revered both Kelly and Jess. The latter said nothing, but simply turned on her heel and pounded out of Crossusvent post-haste. Kelly was left by her lonesome, to take in her new instructor.

"This place is wicked," was all she could say, infused with awe at the setting before her.

"Yes, well, we must not waste any more time, but rather, set you to work on the task of mastering the plastic blade."

Over the following hour, Otis—Wankin' Otis—and Kelly Carpenter engaged in intense drills wherein the young woman learned to thrust, parry, feint and lunge with her new toy weapon. Her wizened counselor was most impressed.

"You have learned an infinite amount of information, between 6:20 and 7:20 p.m.," Otis commented, marveling at Kelly's prowess. "But you must still learn and train a bit further before you are ready."

"Learn and train more? Bogus. What else do I need to know?"

"First, before you proceed to your next master, you must further understand the situation before us. I have knowledge as to the threat before us…as well as what befell your father in his final moments…"

"My dad?!" Kelly interrupted him. "You have to tell me!"

Otis-Wank was greatly disturbed by this interjection. "Do not cut in like that; it is rude. In any case, here is what I was saying.

"Over the various eras there have been great warrior guardians of the people here, originally known as the Indoorsmen…now also referred to as the Indoorspeople," the old master began. "For over a thousand generations these Indoorsmen were the guardians of peace and justice in the survivor sectors, the Leisure Republic, and various other areas. Before the Park times, before the Outdoorsmen.

"You see, unfortunately, some of these guardians became corrupted through the immense power they wielded, as well as through prolonged exposure to inexplicable evil energies coursing through the outdoor atmosphere of the Leisure Republic itself. The combination of these factors caused the corrupted to form a faction of warriors of their own, called the Outdoorsmen. Because of their ruination by the air of the Republic, these warriors are said to have gone over to…the Park Side." Otis-Wank said this last phrase with halting pronunciation.

"Okay, I see…but like, my father, how did my father die?" Kelly asked.

"A young Outdoorsman named Carlito Keyes…later known infamously as Carl Evader, for his uncanny ability to escape apprehension by the Indoorsmen again and again…Evader was a pupil of mine before he turned to evil. He helped some of the Outdoorsmen hunt down and destroy a few of the Indoorsmen of old. He betrayed and murdered your father."

"That sucks," Kelly said.

"Indeed," Otis-Wank replied. "Evader is a member of a great, honored race known as the Santa Cabezans. Another member of this race you know as Mistress Isadolla, who rules over the survivor sectors. Isadolla is the norm for Santa Cabezans; Carl Evader is the exception.

"Look, Kelly," Otis continued, presenting her with a long, glowing weapon, "I have something here for you. Your father wanted you to have this when you were old enough, but your foster father, Mr. Carpenter, wouldn't allow it. He feared you might follow old Otis-Wank on some damn-fool idealistic crusade like your real father did. It's your father's real laser sword. This is the weapon of an Indoorsman. Not as clumsy or as random as a Real Mega Buster, but an elegant weapon for a more civilized age. You must go to your next master in order to truly learn the art of this blade."

"And like, where do I go for that?" Kelly squeaked.

"The key, young lady…lies in Yuu-Ta."

"Utah?! From what I'm told, we don't have time to go there! We have, like, only sixteen and a half hours left or something."

"No…I speak of the great master, Yuu Tanaka. He actually resides back in McKendor, from whence you arrived. You must return home and continue your training thence."

As Kelly got up to leave Crossusvent, Otis-Wank grabbed her shoulder. "Do not forget, Kelly," he urged her, "this is a dangerous time for you…and you will be tempted by the Park Side. Go to Yuu-Ta as soon as you are able."

"Alright, well, like, totally, then," she said. "Y'know, this all seems pretty cool, like, a big adventure of sorts. I'm pretty psyched up for it."

"I agree," Otis responded. "I never thought I would get involved in an adventure like this at my age. This is so exciting that I cannot sleep."

And so, with her toy laser sword training in tow, Kelly singlehandedly braved the light-year voyage back to McKendor, where a wise man, whom the woman heretofore referred to as the "Kitano-ster," pointed the way to the location of Yuu-Ta: the southernmost tip of her homeland.

Upon meeting Kelly, Yuu-Ta bowed gracefully and handed her what at first appeared to be an ancient tome. Upon closer inspection, however, she realized that it was just a glossy magazine. Her new instructor nodded, urging her to open the article of literature.

Kelly looked at the first open page, and was surprised to see neon letters greeting her. "Yuu Tanaka I am, or, as call me the locals colloquially do, 'Yuu-Ta.' To train you in the ways of the real laser sword I must. Urgent the matter is, for very grave your quest is. Apologize for faulty sentence structure in this magical periodical I do, for nearly broken by overuse it is."

"Okay; tubular." Something within Kelly wanted so badly to say "Yuu-tubular"; but even she declined to sink so low into bad punnage at this point, especially with matters being as desperate as they were right now.

"I'd, like, love to become a great warrior, like Otis-Wank once was…or maybe General Gramps. He's, like, covered wars, you know."

"Great warrior?" the magazine replied. "Wars not make one great."

"Well, why would a great, esteemed master such as yourself want to train a little lady like me?"

"Delivered to me by Otis—Wankin' Otis you were. Have no choice but to trust him I think I do."

"I won't let you down, Master Yuu-Ta."

"See this I can; teach you for now but remain suspicious of your tricks I will," Yuu-Ta's magazine stated.

"Like, what?!"

"Kidding, I am just," read the magazine. "Started, let's get."

From that point until about 9:00 p.m., Yuu-Ta trained Kelly in the art of the real laser sword. The two had at each other in several bouts in that time, and in the process each of them nearly inadvertently decapitated Styles Snooty, the snobby survivalist who kept to himself in his own corner of McKendor.

"Amazing ability you possess," Kelly noticed the magazine printing in deep admiration. "Great warrior maiden you will become."

"Yeah, but like, I'm so afraid of what's gonna happen in the next few hours…"

"Fear is the path to the Park Side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."

"I see, Yuu-Dude," said Kelly.

Yuu-Ta paused for a second, as if contemplating something extremely important. "Obligated to tell of the existence of the Special Force I am," were the next words Kelly read.

"Special Force? Fill me in; where's the beef?"

"Not knowledgeable of exactly what is Special Force I am," Yuu-Ta's magazine responded. "Unable to grasp its meaning of place in universe wisest people have been. Possible it is that nonetheless harness Special Force you can, with potential you have."

Yuu-Ta then spent the next several minutes channeling as much of his comprehension of the Special Force as he could through the magazine…though it didn't amount to very much. Kelly was nevertheless grateful, needing all the help he could get.

"Well, even though I'm still pretty scared, I think I might be ready," Kelly said.

"Ready are you?" the magazine challenged. "What know you of ready? For eight hundred years I have trained Indoorsmen. An Indoorsperson must have the deepest commitment, the most serious mind. What are you doing? Hmph. Adventure. Heh. Excitement. Heh. An Indoorsperson craves not these things. You are reckless.

After a long pause, wherein Kelly looked shamefully at the McKendorian ground, Yuu-Ta continued. "Kelly…powerful you have become, but the Park Side I sense in you. Not give in to it you must; keep this always in mind you must. Pardon my rudeness; important it is that understand the gravity of this mission you do. And important role you play."

"Dudical. Thank you so much, Yuu-Ta."

"No problem it is, K-Car. This magazine as humble offering please accept; come to visit me anymore anyway no one does."

With a hearty wave, the young heroine kept the publication and left the abode of the old master. She crinkled her brow, however, at what Yuu-Ta called her. He seemed pretty knowledgeable about what was going on in their world; did others have names for her, just as they did for Jug…er, Janet?

The flimsy gateway to the North Territory flung open out onto the Leisure Republic. Through the portal emerged a small, motorless craft, occupied by one Dana Deacon-Simms and piloted, or rather, pushed, by one Ryan LaRosa. Contrary to popular belief, the old timer and the young lady, both with intense, ortolan eyes, had not perished eons ago in the Nineteenth Era BBY, but were still alive and well today in the Twenty-First.

The vehicle with which the two were involved was a formidable four-wheeled cruiser, fitted with myriad blades and other armaments. They found the conveyance inside the abandoned Seon's Station; it was sleek, sturdy, and powerful. Unfortunately, however, it was also a bit sluggish, and made all sorts of hellish sounds as it dragged along. Because of the unbearable din, the voices of the two were unceasingly drowned out by a series of scratches, scrapes, and squeaks as they progressed.

The cruiser slowly coasted through the Republic, crushing magnificent tufts of grass and mounds of dirt as it trudged along. Inside the craft, Dana glared at Ryan and sighed: couldn't they go any faster? Because each possessed sort-of-alliterative initials (Ryan (La)Rosa, and Dana, Lilly Deacon's sister, shared her sibling's surname before marrying and becoming "Simms"), the pair referred to themselves by a collective appellation: R Squared D Squared. But that didn't mean that there was any affection between the two. Very much the opposite, in fact.

Ryan could sense that he and his surviving companion were about to engage in another argument, the cantankerousness of which would compete with the clanging of their awesome vehicle. But before they could begin to spar once again, they were interrupted by the advent of an even greater, more incredible craft. It was as green as a varactyl's hide and manned by three colorful crewmen.

"Hello, sir, madam. If we may say so, the possibility of successfully navigating this vast sterile field is 3,720 to 1. It may be optimal for you to benefit from our assistance."

The speaker seemed affable enough, though he was dressed in a threatening motley suit that was louder than the items inside the survivors' craft. His piebald fabrics were complemented by brilliant crimson curls and porcelain ivory skin.

The other two inside the emerald monstrosity were nearly as imposing in their appearances: an unwashed brutish beast with a thick beard and thicker belly, and an older individual wearing torn flannel and denim, all matted with blood.

Ryan opened his mouth to reply to the first man, but as soon as he spoke he was drowned out by the rattling of the blades and other metallic objects filling his vehicle. "SQUIRR BLEET BRAK BRAK BRAK," the craft went.

And yet, for some reason incomprehensible to a rational human, the harlequin-looking man understood what Ryan was mouthing. "Yes, we were planning to go in that direction as well. Why don't we escort you to safety as soon as is practicable. But first, an introduction: Altogether we are to be referred to as the 3"C" Psychos, tri-psychotic relations: Cletus, Cliff, and myself, the "Clown" Adam. It is an unending pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Dana's lips moved, but again the craft: "BRRT SQUEAK SCRACK SCRACK SQUIRR."

"Well met, Ryan and Dana," Adam said in return. We shall continue this interaction further afield, literally; for now, we had better be on our way. If our rides remain stopped for any longer, then the mercenaries from whom we pilfered our vehicle may come back. And I'm afraid that won't be any fun at all."

"Yes, I fear that if we were to venture one step in a false direction, we may all be blown to kingdom come by those roustabouts," volunteered the bearded brute, known as "Cletus." "I am fluent in over 6 million forms of communication, and I speak best through my 12-Gauge…but I do not wish to run across those gentlemen anytime soon."

"I too am apprehensive that, should we fail to evade capture, they shall beat valuable information from our lifeforms until we begin to beg death to take us away," stated the be-flanneled one, "Cliff." "We seem to be made to suffer. It's our lot in life. But at times such as now I feel as if I am entrenched in a war that is never over…that never ends."

"BRAK BRAK BLEET SQUAK SQUEAL," sounded Ryan and Dana's craft again, the shifting contents within once more canceling out Ryan's attempted response.

The three psychos all nodded, understanding what Ryan was mouthing. A moment later, the gargantuan green vehicle was in motion once more across the Republic, with R Squared's craft coasting close behind.

The three C's appeared somewhat freakish and intimidating to the couple coming from the North Territory, despite their articulate tongues. What Ryan and Dana did not know was that each Psycho was defeated, and nearly destroyed, by General Gramps not long ago. However, before any of them could pass away, they were nursed and restored to health by an infinitely regal and beneficent being, a monarch blessed with bio-scientific brilliance as well as beautiful Hispanic features. Out of gratitude, each of the three pledged their services and talents to her.

That same leader was attempting to get in touch with the three at the moment. Inside the green vehicle, a transceiver went off and was answered by Adam. "Yes, my lady…yes, of course. We will readily comply within the coming minutes and parsecs." The craft stopped again briefly, then changed direction to start a new course of travel, this time toward the Maintenance Trenches. Ryan and Dana voiced a steely, jangly protest as they trailed.

"My apologies, sir, madam," Adam said to those following him. "We have received orders from Mistress Isadolla, and must fulfill her wishes. After which we will complete our escort of your persons. Please bear with this side itinerary for now."

R Squared D Squared continued to tail the other craft, each survivor's lips sealed but their vehicle bumping along, noisily as ever.

In the sector Gordonosis, named after a long passed brave, balding, fearless hero, two virtuous men were thrown down before a massive creature. The thing before them was frightening, yet also frightened; towering over all present, yet cowering in the corner.

The first of the men rose to his feet, his face flashing a bitter scowl, his neck brandishing a bowtie. "We're civilian survivors, not soldiers," he barked, adjusting his suit. "We are not here to fight each other…but, in the face of your desperate maneuver, we will not be hostages to be bartered."

The entity to which the statement was directed choked out a hoarse cry which shook the earth.

"Kindell," started the other man, shaking the first's shoulder, "It may not be wise to upset this enormous…creation. I beg you; stay your hand."

Kindell Johnson listened to his associate, but refused to take his eyes off the humongous creature before him. His protégé, Josh "Manndo Crislip'sian" Manning (who was called as such because he claimed to have defeated the mad veteran Cliff Hudson of Crislip's Station with his bare hands—though nothing could be further from the truth), might have been right at the moment…but they were dealing with Natalie Meyer here—an enormous organism so imposing in statute and width that the denizens of the sector referred to her in secret as "Natta the Butt."

"Hur, hur, hur," Natta blubbered, his eyes emitting gulfs of tears, her vocal passage so full of halitosis that lately it almost sounded as if she were speaking an alien language.

"I am going to end this, once and for all!" Kindell went on. "We have an opportunity to escape this sector—not to mention the entire Willamettan Domain—and you're attempting to ruin it with your cowardly groveling. It is imperative that we abscond as soon as possible. Anyone who buys into the idea without proof that the Ed Guy will come for us in the ensuing hours is a fool!"

"Kindell, please," urged "Manndo" again, though he knew it would do no good. The situation was getting more and more desperate by the instant, and it had to be contained. Natta's anxiety was growing; she had even resorted to taking a hostage: Leah Stein, who was a comely woman yet a bit high strung—so much so that the word "Princess" preceded her name when many spoke of her. Josh cast his sight across Gordonosis and saw that Princess Leah's lover, Gil Jimenez, was quivering—either out of fear for his lady or for want of wine.

Next to Josh, Kindell quavered furiously, knowing that he would have to play his last and most cogent card. He gritted his teeth as he looked across at Barbara Patterson, the one who threw him to the floor. Unbeknownst to him, the "Aspens" logo on the back of the woman's jacket did not signify any sort of baseball club, but rather a cadre of ruthless bounty hunters and bail agents. And she was the most infamous of them all, known in certain circles as "Bobbi Patt." He never should have turned his back on her.

"I am sorry," Kindell said to Natta, clearing his throat. "but given the circumstances, I'm afraid you have forced my hand."

Kindell was an excellent speaker, and could gather throngs of people together whenever he started his harangues. Before the entire Willamettan saga had commenced, he organized rebel rallies and prepared protest events against authority figures such as Boss Jess. He was going to have to resort to a diabolical ruse, a distraction, in order to shift Natta's attention away from her hostage.

"Everyone listen up! This party's over!" Kindell began. "Despite the plan I agreed on with General Gramps earlier, I've decided that we should make a break for it right now! I also submit that we should use Natta and Bobbi here as human battering rams to get through any Outdoorsmen in our way! Who's with me?"

A show of hands by the majority in Gordonosis caused Natta and Bobbi to swoon with despair. Even Natta's consort, "Dexterous Jeffster" Jeff Meyer, named so for his double-handed skill with the golfing weapon he always wielded, had voted against his mistress. Upon realizing that her threat was waning, Natta slowly began reeling backward, unable to withstand the situation. "What's…happened...?" was all she could utter between sobs, again sounding off in an almost alien tongue, as she started to pitch toward the floor.

"What's happened is that the oppression of the Butt will never return," Kindell declared. "You have lost. Y'see, sitting around in a locked sector isn't exactly my scene…and you haven't helped things any."

Kindell then pumped "Manndo"'s arm with a firm hand, pointing at Princess Leah. "Now, my child," he prompted. Josh darted forward and scooped up Princess Leah with his gangly arms just in time as Natta crashed onto her notorious Butt in the same place a second later. A moment later, he returned Leah safely to Gil.

"These people were to be left in this survivor sector under Kindell's and my supervision," Josh said ruefully as the princess and the drunkard embraced. "This was not part of the deal that was struck with General Gramps."

"Don't be thing'in' about hic what happen hours ago," Gil replied with slurred speech, saturated with several sorts of swallowed substances, "Keep your hic con…con…consetration in the heeeeere and now…where it hic belongzzzzz. Zzzzzzz" He fell asleep an instant later, and literally fell on top of Leah. _So much for saving her from being crushed,_ Josh thought.

"Will someone get this big drunken carouser out of my way?" she shouted, doing her best to get out from under Gil. Princess Leah hated it when her man was like this. The occupants of Gordonosis had dubbed him "Quite-Gone" Jimenez due to the extremities he reached when thoroughly inebriated.

"You tipsy, double-fisted, no-good drinker!" Josh spat at Gil.

"Grace! Grace, help me! Where is my baby? I want my baby back!" Princess Leah yelled once she regained her feet, pointing to Kindell as she spoke. In the survivor sector, the hero was sometimes known as "Grace" Kindell, because for some reason Leah viewed him as her long passed daughter.

Josh threw up his hands in frustration. "The Ed Guy is taking too long to come save us," he muttered. "How much longer are we to stand this? People here are beginning to take such desperate measures…Natta capturing Leah and such."

"Patience, my hic blue friend," Gil said, struggling to his feet and blinking drunkenly at Josh's teal button-down shirt and azure jeans. "I'm not hic worried about the Ed Guy anyway; I've got angels hic beautiful angels comin' to get me." He then turned swervingly to Leah. "What hic time is it?"

Leah looked around to ask someone.

"Time hic to get my drink on hic all over again hic, thash what time it is." He swerved again and nearly fell over.

"Why, you boozed-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking liquor-herder," Princess Leah cried, thinking of choking him as she did to General Gramps during their first encounter.

Back in the Paradise Rim, a dashing adventurer rushed up ornately tiled steppes, taking them in twos. He had a lustful look in his eyes and was thirsty for vengeance. Tad Hawthorne thought himself a crafty scoundrel, through the way he looked, walked, and talked; but had Kelly Carpenter been present at the moment, she probably would have pointed to his red life-jacket-like getup and called him "McFly."

Tad wasn't a man who was ever very popular with the opposing gender; he was too impulsive (not unlike a spacefaring swashbuckler), and had too short a fuse. Because he alienated many people with these attributes, some called him "Haw Solo" behind his back. At thirty-one, he could sense his biological clock beginning to tick away. Even his poorly-groomed companion was starting to look good right now.

The companion in question, Rebecca Chambers, was a veteran member of S.T.A.R.S. from the erstwhile Raccoon Hegemony. She was sent by task force brass to assist in containing the troublesome factors cropping up in the Willamettan Domain. One bad thing about the situation, however, was that she was sent in on such short notice that she hadn't had time to get her hair cut—it had grown considerably since her time in the Raccoon Hegemony, and now went down to the small of her back. As such, she was rather furry at the moment.

What was worse, on her way to her mission's locale she somehow contracted laryngitis, bronchitis, and a host of other –itises, some of which were heretofore unfamiliar to humankind. Because of this, her voice took on a throaty, almost animalistic rasp that would wake the dead, or even the undead, if there were any in the Domain.

Worst of all, however, was that the dossiers transmitted to Boss Jess regarding her personal information came out all scrambled and inaccurate. Although the expert S.T.A.R.S.woman was one of the organization's most decorated soldiers by now, her file information relayed none of her past experience, conveying to all in the Domain that she was nothing more than a "Rookie." Adding insult to injury was the fact that not even her full name, ordinarily presented as "Chambers/Rebecca," showed up on the survivor sectors' computer screens. Because of young lady's throat condition, she couldn't stop all she encountered from calling her by that accidental typographical manifestation: Cham/becca.

Tad pumped ahead, fists and teeth clenched, his overly long-haired associate following closely behind. His arch enemy had to be around here somewhere. Though he knew that General Gramps had vanquished the scrawny, spiky-maned anathema, Haw was sure that his foe could still pop up again somehow, as he always seemed to do between the Nineteenth, Twentieth, and Twenty-First Eras. That young monster, Kent Swanson.

Or, as he would sometimes be known by his full first name and shortened last name: Kentar Swan.

On Tad's heels, Cham/becca tried to say, "Do you think he's close by now?" but it instead came out, "R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-REAH?"

"I'd stake my life on it, Chamie," Tad responded, possessing that same innate ability to understand indecipherable communications as did the trio of dappled Psychos out in the Republic. He screwed up his face into a scowl as he looked around the Rim; Kentar was nowhere to be found. "I've got a bad feeling about this," he mused.

Both were suddenly shocked as they were sneak-attacked by a sneakered foot suspended in midair. Cham/becca, caught completely off guard, went flying into the Colombian Roast Consortium; but Haw's reflexes were a fraction sharper, and he ended up rolling with the impact and rising to his feet again seconds later.

A prepubescent laugh greeted both heroes, followed by the alighting of an overgrown child wearing short pants and a red vest, the tackiness of which rivaled Tad's own torsowear.

"Ahh, Taddy, good timing," the "man" known as Kentar Swan said, pulling out his trusty, piss-poor pistol. "I was just about to shoot my piece de resistance…"

"Great, kid; don't get cocky," Haw cut in, aiming his own weapon: the Real Mega Buster. "We're already past that anyway. Let's get on with it and get this overwith."

"Ha-HA-Hah-Ha-Ha-Ha-Haaa," Kentar blurted out, failing to take the weapon seriously. It did look kind of goofy, like a blue mailbox affixed to Tad's forearm.

Even Cham/becca, who was supposed to be the adventurer's support, couldn't help herself as she picked herself up in the Roast Consortium. "RLL-LL-LL-LL-LL!"

"Laugh it up, fuzzball," Tad said to his companion over his shoulder, chucking the Buster into the ready position as he faced the nemesis of his lifetime.

"Hh-hh-you really think," Kentar chortled, "Hh-that you can hurt me with that thing?! Go ahead; let's put your destructo-mailbox up against my sidearm. Show me what you can do with that…hand toy and I'll be the judge."

Haw shrugged a second, then fired. A concussive sparkball of energy shot out, whooshing forward and smashing into the premature adult standing on the other side. Kentar Swan crumpled to the ground, his digestive, circulatory, respiratory, reproductive and other bodily systems irreversibly rearranged.

Haw walked up to where his annoying antagonist lay, charging up the cannon for another shot.

"Ohh God, God in heaven help me! My gun didn't measure up…and now you're going to get back at me…kill me…aren't you? I mean, we're talking of revenge! That's not the path of Taddy! Having lost so much, must we now give that up as well?"

"Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no substitute for a good Buster at your side, kid," said Tad, as he pointed the RMB at the space between Kentar's legs and fired again.

Kentar Swan finally leaned his head back against the ground of the Paradise Rim, really deceased this time.

"What a nutjob," Tad said to himself as Kentar finally kicked it for good.

A retching sound made him spin around. In the Roast Consortium, Cham/becca was throwing up a pie she had eaten while watching the battle. The noise of vomit permeated all of the Paradise Rim. The adventurer sniffed, shaking his head.

"R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-REAH!"

"What a Rookie!"

Although Kelly was riding safely on the back of General Gramps through the Leisure Republic, she couldn't help but feel a bit exhausted and afraid. They were racing toward the Food Court Cluster, the indoors realm reigned over by their otherwise-outdoors-occupying mortal foe: Carl Evader. It was fifteen minutes to midnight.

As Kelly jerked up and down on the General's back, her transceiver crackled to life. She recognized the frequency on the device and pulled it up close to her ear.

"Yeah, Boss Jess?"

"Please report on your progress through the Republic. Are you getting close to Evader's sector?"

"We're, like, almost there."

"Well, make sure that master of evil is put down for good, will you? If we succeed in our mission, the Domain may yet be saved."

"Funky fresh."

"Yes…very much so. Check up on Otis-Wank in the next couple of minutes; as you know, he went a bit ahead and should be there by now."

"Okay, later." Kelly hung up the walkie-talkie.

"Hey," a voice sounded from below her: General Gramps. "You should call Otis-Wank right now, see if he needs help." Secretly, the General was hoping that the old master was presently locked in combat with the evil Keyes, and that Kelly might be able to interrupt him in the thick of battle, just as Otis had done to him on limitless occasions.

"Gotcha," Kelly said, duly turning on the transceiver again.

Meanwhile, on the ground of the insidious Food Court Cluster, two arch nemeses confronted one another. Kelly's desired callee was indeed occupied that instant, staring down his lifelong opponent: a much younger man wielding a laser sword much like his own and wearing flashy threads flaunted by some swingers or lounge lizards.

"I've been waiting for you, Otis-Wank," the insidious Carl Evader told his former mentor and now mortal foe. "We meet again, at last. The Cluster is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner, but now _I_ am the master."

"Only a master of larvae, Carl," Otis—Wankin' Otis—replied softly, referring to the deadly larvae that Evader would soon use in his "last resort."

The two locked glares with one another, each prepared to risk his future on this mortal mall plane in this imminent, all-important duel to the death.

RRRRRING

Otis again, as he stepped off to the side a second: "Wait, I have to take this. Yeah?"

"Vent, like, are you, like, there yet?"

"Kelly, I don't really think this is a good time…" It was tough for Otis-Wank (sometimes lovingly called "Vent" because he was an important contributor to the Crossusvent civilization) to speak to the young lady with the transceiver in his left hand at his ear, while simultaneously having his real laser sword in his right, fending off overhead strikes and swipes by Carl Evader. "Can't you call back at some point?"

Before the heroine could respond, a huge static-y crash greeted her ear. On the other end, Carl's sword had knocked the communicator out of Otis's left hand. The villain slowly stepped forward with his meter-long laser sticking out in front of him, the handle lodged tightly in both hands.

"You should not have come back through the plazas to face me, Otis-Wank," Evader said, approaching. He was almost to Otis-Wank, who was propped up against the partition to a cantina called "That's A Spicy Meatball!"

"You can't win, Carl," Otis responded, raising his real laser sword at the last second. "If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful, interruptive, and annoying than you could possibly imagine." The two swung back and forth at each other, high and low, hard and harder. Finally Carl Evader rushed at Otis-Wank, bodychecking him away from the Meatball grounds and into the main gateway area to the Food Court Cluster from the Leisure Republic.

A bit shakily, the old master rose to his feet. "I wouldn't continue this duel if I were you…but you young folks never listen to me."

Carl narrowed his eyes at his former mentor, preparing to engage him again.

"Vent!"

Otis-Wank spun around to see Kelly jumping off the back of General Gramps and running towards him. He then turned back to his longtime enemy, just stood there, and smiled.

He continued to do nothing as Carl Evader's real laser sword begin to enter him at neck level. Kelly watched as, a second later, her beloved master was instantly vaporized.

"NO! HEINOUS!"

All that remained of Otis—Wankin' Otis—was a bright blue jacket that read WILLAMETTE on the back, coasting listlessly to the floor.

Kelly was at a loss for trendy words and phrases largely used a generation ago.

She could only quiver and shake, and glare at the most evil individual in the galaxy, standing a stone's throw from her.

"Your destiny lies with me, Carpenter," Carl Evader said, turning his real laser sword over and over in his hands. "Otis-Wank knew this to be true."

A beat later the heroine finally found her voice. "No way, Evader. No freakin' way. At least Otis-Wank didn't, like, go and join the Outdoorsmen…didn't go over to the Park Side!"

"Ahh, but the Park Side embodies the fulfillment of human potential, my dear," the base excuse for a man replied. "And the Outdoorsmen are its flawless representatives. You could be a part of all of it…Kelly…you need only say the word."

Kelly's blood froze. How did Carl Evader know her name?

She didn't have time to ponder that now. Shaking off her surprise and unsheathing her own real laser sword, she cried, "My name will be, like, the last on your lips, you sleazy freak!"

"We shall see, young Carpenter."

Kelly dashed forward with an overhead strike which Evader summarily parried. The two locked lasers, the heroine's futuristic sword heavy atop the villain's. Evader then drew his weapon back, up and over for a head strike of his own, which Kelly effectively blocked. The two then batted back and forth with one another at torso level a few times, Kelly's sword against Evader's, then Evader's against Kelly's, then back again and back once more. Evader lost his bearings for a second as he backed into a set of crates set up near a cantina named Great Big Burger, but then jump-spin-kicked Kelly away when she darted in again. Seizing upon a chance for more space, Evader hauled himself up atop the crates, to a set of suspended platforms.

Kelly picked herself up off the ground in an instant and leaped up to pursue him. Being much younger and quicker, she caught up to him before he could start jumping to the overhangs of various cantinas. The vicious man spun around with a real sword slash, from which Kelly jumped away at the last second.

"You're making a grave mistake by not joining us," the vile version of a person told the young woman. "Becoming an Outdoorsman is an achievement."

"So is becoming an Indoorsman," Kelly shot back, following her statement with

a slash of her own, which was swatted away by her foe. "Sorry, Evader, but you've joined the wrong side. I—whoop!"

Kelly dodged Evader's quick, unexpected lunge with alarming speed. She attempted to take advantage of the opening in his attack with a quick blow to the head, but her target ducked at the last instant, causing her swing to go a bit wild. Her back became open to Evader as she finished her swipe, and he swiftly kicked her there, sending her nearly tumbling off the platform. Kelly caught her balance, however, and righted herself before she could fall. Evader moved in for the kill, but his face fell from smug to shocked when his opponent threw her real laser sword to her feet, grabbed the man, and executed a Judo Throw. Apparently she had learned a thing or two from General Gramps, in addition to her other masters.

The throw caused Evader to almost careen off the platform himself, but he caught himself on the edge, hanging by two white-knuckled handgrips. Having the compassion and soul (and stupidity) of an Indoorsman, Kelly approached to help him up. "Okay, okay, I surrender, young Carpenter," he said, at the same time reaching for a small, old-fashioned knife in his boot.

"Like, just take a pill and ch…"

"As you would probably say…" Evader spat, bringing the knife forward in a slashing motion, "SIKE!"

But the desired effect did not come, as Kelly again inexplicably avoided the blade's slash with a fast backstep. Unfortunately, this maneuver caused her to lose her balance against the edge of the platform, and again it was her turn to almost plunge off the ledge. Like Evader, she was hanging only by her hands an instant later.

The evil man wasted no time, but stepped forward with his real laser sword and swung at Kelly's head.

She ducked at the last second, but the sword did connect with a part of her body that was very valuable to her.

Kelly cried out in agony as almost all of her long, frizzy hair was blasted from her head by Evader's blow. This was the unkindest cut of all; she would rather have parted with an eye, a foot, even a _hand,_ than this. "O-o-odious," was all she could say.

"Now, my dear Kelly," Evader said, slowly stepping towards the young woman, "it is time for you to know. Time for you to discover the truth about who you really are."

Kelly remained hanging, her hands aching, her head pounding, her scalp burning. She looked up at her enemy with pure detestation as he crouched down near her to continue speaking.

"You are many things, in terms of what is in your blood. You have very, very good genes as well, my K-Car."

She gritted her teeth upon hearing that damn name yet again.

"But you must know, in terms of your nationality…you are, primarily,…

"…Santa Cabezan."

Kelly's eyes went wider than R Squared's ever possibly could. Her jaw hung slack, in a state of suspension like the rest of her body. She was again unable to say anything—even eighties epithets.

"And you should be informed of another thing, too. Your real full name…is not Kelly Carpenter…but Kelly Keyes."

Again with the eyes bulging and the jaw slacking.

"If only you knew the power of the Park Side," Evader continued. "Otis-Wank never told you what happened to your father."

"He told me enough!" Kelly interjected. "He told me you, like, killed him and all…"

"No. I…am…your…"

Evader hesitated a moment. Kelly looked up at him like "Like…yeah?"

"Umm…let's just say I'm your…_pachapapa_…if you catch my drift."

Kelly didn't have to speak Spanish, or any sort of Cabezan dialect, to understand what her enemy was getting at. She reared her head back and looked to the heavens.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! GAG ME WITH A SPOOOOOOOOOOOOON!"

Her foe, and her father, she now realized, simply remained hunched down for a moment, looking down upon his daughter. He noticed that her face was wracked with pain, her voice muffled with gasps and sobs. Then his own face darkened as he noticed the time: 11:58 p.m.

"I have many things I need to accomplish in the next several hours, my child," he continued, bringing his real laser sword between him and the fruit of his loins. "I will offer you once more: become an Outdoorsman…Outdoorsperson. Join me, and we can rule the Domain as father and daughter."

"I'll never join you," said Kelly through clenched teeth.

Evader blanched a second, then tried again. "Give in to the Park Side, Kelly."

"Never."

It was 11:59 p.m.

As Kelly clutched onto the edge of the platform, a familiar voice suddenly startled her inside her head. Otis—Wankin' Otis.

Dear Vent.

_"Use the Special Force, Kelly."_

It echoed through her mind again and again. Her hands squeezed the wooden planks as she struggled to concentrate.

_The Special Force…the Special Force…_

She closed her eyes and focused as best she could, to draw some sort of mystic energy from within, to summon a spiritual power to aid her in this time of direst need. Carl Evader rose up slightly, his real laser sword aimed toward his child's mostly bare scalp.

12:00 a.m.

Out of nowhere the pair was joined by a precipitation of men, all garbed in black from top to toe, shimmying down wires and firing automatic weapons.

"What…what is this?!" the bad man shrieked, pulling his real laser sword away from his daughter's face—where it would have intersected a second later.

Kelly, on the other hand, knew exactly what it was.

"NEVER, LIKE, UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF THE SPECIAL FORCE!"

A new strength flowed within her as the voice returned again.

_"Use the Special Force…let go, Kelly…Kelly, trust me…"_

The girl released her grip on the platform, freefalling to the floor below. As soon as she hit the ground, she rolled away, searching for a safe place to hide herself as the cavalry she must have just summoned went to their work. Back up on the wooden planks, her father found himself surrounded by soldiers—obsidian storm troopers, as it were—perched on other platforms and aiming at him.

"Hijos de puta," Carl Evader said as he flew across the platform he occupied, leaping to the overhang of a nearby cantina. He sped forward, racing toward a gay looking wire he had set up on the outcropping above the "Meaty's" cantina. However, before he could propel himself upward with the line, another onyx-clad warrior slid down it.

"Found 'eem!" said the solider triumphantly, abruptly plugging the Santa Cabezan with a full clip of bullets.

On the floor, Kelly looked to the left and the right. There were troopers everywhere; and did one actually take a shot at her? Did the bullet that just grazed her basically bald head come from these helpers, whom she called upon as a last resort?

Before she could make any more sense of it, a figure on a speeding, two-wheeled craft flew by and skidded to a stop right near her. Kelly whirled around to see a gorgeous young lady, with skin and some features just like Evader's.

"You're…like…" Kelly managed to get out.

"Never mind that for now. Come on!" The mysterious woman reached out, grabbed the young heroine, and placed her in a sitting position behind her. She then revved up her vehicle and sped out of the Food Court Cluster, back toward the Leisure Republic.

Scads of grass and mud kicked up messily as Isadolla's craft crunched through the turf of the Leisure Republic. Kelly hung on for dear life, her arms gripped around the shapely waist of her savior. She initially thought that they would be speeding back towards the survivor areas, and was surprised upon seeing the vehicle shift towards the Maintenance Trenches.

"Where are we going? The survivor sectors are the other way!" she cried.

"We need to stop Evader's last resort, Kelly…we must destroy the Death Larva."

Kelly couldn't believe it—couldn't believe a couple of things right now, actually. For one, that Carl Evader was still a threat, even after his apparent demise; and for another: "Wait wait wait wait wait—now how do _you_ know my name?"

"It's sort of…complicated," the machine's driver responded. "I'll have to get into it later. My name is Isabela; everyone calls me Isadolla, which I _hate_, because of my adorably gorgeous Latino looks. But I'll try to answer your question later…for now, I need to call someone a second." Really, it was some_ones_ she was going to call. Isadolla clicked on the transceiver and set the appropriate frequency.

"3 C Psychos," she started, "give me your position."

"Mistress Isadolla," buzzed Adam on the other side, "we are presently deep within the Maintenance Trenches. We were originally considering approaching the area on foot, but then I decided to give myself and my happy compatriots a lift on this fun ride." On the other end of the communication, the Clown patted the side of the green craft.

"You managed to secure a vehicle—good," Isadolla returned. "You must help us, as we discussed before—Evader has set his Death Larva into motion, and we have to get ahold of the explosives. We will do anything we need to do to get them—even kill, if we must."

"I object, Mistress," said Cletus, over the line. "You want…you want bombs so bad…that you would be willing to kill for them?"

"We have no choice, Cletus," said Isadolla. "Please…just do as you're told. Go to the arranged meeting point—the garbage disposal unit."

Cliff sniffed on the other end. "We shall comply…but at a future time, you, Mistress, are going to tell me where the Gamorreans' hideout is…"

"Okay, okay," Isadolla agreed; she went to the trouble of saving these fools, and now they were getting testy…and even pushy? "You men drive a hard bargain, but…I will fulfill your wishes in time. For now, we must set to the task if we are to survive." She hung up the communicator.

On the other end, deep within the Trenches, Dana was beginning to panic. She needed reassurance, and began to whine to the Psychos.

"SCRAPE SCREEP BLAP BLAP SCREEK!"

"We will go to the survivor area in due time, D Squared," Adam told her. He sighed, his toleration of the tagalongs beginning to wear thin. "Why we agreed to take you with us is beyond me. I would much rather have gone with Mistress Isadolla than be here with you. I don't know what all this trouble is about, but I'm sure it must be your fault."

"SCRAP SCRAP SCREE SHINK SHANK!"

A minute later, Isadolla's vehicle crashed through the gates to the Maintenance Trenches. She had to try and get to those explosives before they went off. Although she watched as Evader was fired upon, and absorbed tens of bullets from the soldiers raining in, she was sure that he was not gone for good.

"Isadolla!" sounded a familiar, amplified voice behind her. Yep, she knew it.

Evader was driving an imposing white and pink cruiser, with the insidious insignia MICHELLE CLUB emblazoned on the side. It must be some underground Outdoorsmen brothel, Isadolla figured. The most evil humanoid ever was pursuing her closely in the vehicle, his head propped outside the side window, his face obscured by a megaphone.

"Please come back to me, Isadolla! I know you can hear me! I'm sorry I got you wrapped up in all this…I'm sorry that the two of us ever got…_involved…_"

"What is that freak talking about?" Kelly yelled into Isadolla's ear.

"I don't…look, he's just…" Isadolla swallowed hard as she speeded through the underground alleyways, the imposing white/pink behemoth bearing down on her craft. Kelly would have to know, eventually, who her real mother is…just as she discovered the identity of her true father…but she would need to wait. After all, too many revelations at one time, especially ones like this, might kill the poor girl.

They were almost at the location that she and the Psychos agreed upon. Good. She turned her craft hard to the right and flew towards the garbage disposal area.

"Isadolla! Come back to me! Please! I love you, Isadolla…but you know…you _know_ I'm ri—"

CRRRRRRRASH!

Evader was so fixated on his sister—and his former love—that he never noticed the giant green craft approaching him from the other direction. Before he could make the same turn Isadolla just did, the other vehicle smashed into him head on, crushing the engine of his craft and momentarily knocking him out.

He was awakened seconds later, unceremoniously, by a pair of hairy arms that yanked him out of his craft. He turned his face to the right and almost burned his cheek on a scraggly, bushy beard. Evader struggled to break free of the grip upon him, but the man holding him wouldn't budge.

"Oh no, sir, you don't," said Cletus, the man clutching the arch-villain. "I trust Outdoorsmen in general as far as I can throw them, but I trust you even less." He tugged the helpless man toward the opening to the disposal unit, where Cliff was ready and waiting to manhandle the mastermind.

"PACHAME!" Carl Evader cried, in desperation. "PACHAME ISADOLLA! YOU AND I COULD HAVE RULED THE GALAXY! MADE THINGS THE WAY WE WANTED THEM TO BE!"

"You went down a path I could not follow, Carlito," Isadolla replied, now off of her vehicle and beside Adam and Kelly, lowering her head and looking at the ground. She could not help but call her brother by his original, Indoorsman name. "Because of what you've done, what you planned to do."

A tear fell down her immaculate cheek as she looked up to stare her brother in the eye. "But we got your bombs…this is as far as you go today."

"There were five of them," Evader spat. "You couldn't have possibly gotten to all of…"

A flashy action caught the man's attention out of the corner of his eye. Next to a young, pretty girl sitting in a small craft filled with blades, the five explosive in question were being tossed into the air in rapid, calculated succession—juggled—by the Clown.

"You mean these, good sir?" Adam said, laughing a bit too maniacally for Isadolla's and Kelly's tastes. "All the Outdoorsmen used to laugh at me, you know. I was a walking punchline. Hurr-but not anymore."

Evader's expression was still agape as Cletus handed him over to Cliff. In a parallel star system, one burly psychopath would have been roughing him up around this time; in this reality, his psychotic troubles were in duplicate—even triplicate, counting the Clown, technically.

Carl groaned as Cliff grabbed him by the scruff of his gaudy lapels and tossed him into a large septic container, filled with human waste, that was dug into the ground of what was once a simple maintenance storage chamber. The villain struggled to regain his breath as he coughed out all sorts of things deposited by persons in the past.

Cliff chuckled a bit. "Drain the tank, soldier!" he hollered. "Now you're nothing but filthy compost!" Adam approached the chamber to toss the five explosives—now reprogrammed by the genius Psychos to harmlessly detonate in a small, contained environment such as the trash heap—then Cliff slammed the door shut afterward.

Kelly was washed over with relief, vindication, and gratification. "Rad," she said.

She would much rather have Mr. Carpenter as her father than this Outdoorsman imbecile.

"Well done, 3 Psychos," praised Isadolla. "Now we must remove ourselves from this place as quickly as possible."

As Isadolla and Kelly mounted their two-wheeled craft once more, and the large green vehicle blasted away with the smaller squeaking scraping cruiser trailing behind, one evil but defeated man began drowning in a morass of explosives, expletives, and excrement.

"Damn! I'm sorry, Isadolla…I guess, my love, we will always have Santa Cabeza…"

BLAAAAAAAAAAAAM

The explosion remained contained within the garbage disposal unit, so the escaping heroes were not affected by the blast; but inside the chamber, Carl Evader was erased by an incalculable quantity of larva and a literal assload of unmentionable substances.

When the champions of the survivor sectors alighted into the Leisure Republic again, Isadolla and Kelly pressed on to get back home, while the others stopped to rest a moment. Ryan watched as Adam looked longingly at the two speeding away, recognizing that the Clown found both women to be very attractive and alluring. But this was no time to ogle pretty girls; and Ryan decided to tell him so.

"BRAP BRAP SKLINK SQUILSK BRAK!"

"Don't you call me a mindless flogging ogler, you overweight glob of grease!" said Adam.

"BREEP BRAP SCRAPE SHRACK BRAB!"

"I've just about had enough of you. Go that way." The Clown pointed back toward the Food Court Cluster, then started pulling away. He called back to Ryan and Dana, as the two started to follow, "And don't let me catch you following me begging for help because you won't get it."

Four hours later in the survivor area, a grand ceremony was about to commence. The great heroes of the recent crisis were to be revered for their strength, valor, and gumption. Among those to be honored were Haw Solo; "Grace" Kindell Johnson and Josh "Manndo Crislip'sian" Manning; Cletus, Cliff, and the Clown; and of course, Kelly Carpenter.

Mistress Isadolla had wished that Princess Leah act as presenter of the prestigious novelty masks, which were always awarded for bravery in the face of Outdoorsman danger. However, due to the agony she had been suffering from her injured ankle, in addition to the trauma she experienced from nearly being flattened by her captor Natta the Butt, the comely woman was unable to rise to the occasion.

So Isadolla went with her next choice: the venerable spinster Susan Walsh, who was regarded by all in the survivor sectors as the wisest, kindest, and gentlest person in the area.

What they did not know, however, was that she was in reality "Shazam" Walsh, a changeling and bounty hunter who originally sought to assassinate Otis-Wank at the first chance she received. However, given the circumstances of the latest catastrophe, she never had the opportunity to do so, and, as she learned to her dismay, it turned out that Carl Evader had beaten her to the punch anyway.

So she might as well just stick around and enjoy the ceremony.

"Today we honor those who put their lives on the line for the sake of the survivor sectors," Isadolla began, as Susan rounded up the appropriate masks. "We shall bestow the highest honor to each of them, by inducting them into the ranks of the Indoorspeople.

She turned first to Kindell and Josh. "Kindell Johnson and Josh Manning, I pronounce you Indoorspeople, in honor of your courageous rescue of Princess Leah from the intolerable, repulsive behemoth, Natta the Butt." The men accepted the award graciously as the squarish yellow masks of Servbotba were placed over their heads.

Then she turned to Cletus Samson, Cliff Hudson, and Adam MacIntyre. "3 C Psychos, I pronounce you Indoorspeople, in honor of your effective dispatch of our greatest enemy, the ruthless warlord and my brother, whom I now officially disown: Carl Evader. Thank you; thank you so much, gentlemen." Susan placed an amber-hued mask on each man; after she did so, Cletus raised his headwear to sneak a swig from his secret flask, and Cliff placed a hand over his heart, looking sadly at a photograph of three lost family members (which was given back to him by General Gramps an hour ago). Isadolla kissed Adam on the cheek, which precipitated a backflip from the man, and a subsequent roll out the door nearby. The Clown really hoped there was more where that came from.

Isadolla then turned to Haw Solo. "Thaddeus Hawthorne, I pronounce you an honorary Indoorsman, for your defeat of your eternal nemesis, the infuriating Kentar Swan. I classify this award as "honorary" because Swan did not really represent a threat to the survivor areas; but your services are appreciated nonetheless." Tad was a tad miffed at being downgraded like this, but for once did not get PO'd as he received the exalted mask of Servbotba.

"And last, but certainly not least," Isadolla continued, turning to the most important woman at this ceremony, the main heroine of the land—and her daughter—"I pronounce you, Kelly Carpenter, an Indoorswoman, for your diligent training to become mistress of the toy and real laser swords, for your assistance in the discomfiture of Carl Evader, and for your unprecedented apparent mastery of the Special Force. Congratulations, K-Car."

No one saw Kelly roll her eyes as the mask was lowered over her face. What _was_ it with this "K-Car" thing?!

The conclusion of the service was met with thunderous applause from nearly all of the survivors, celebratory growling from Cham/becca, and scratching and scraping from Ryan and Dana.

"Give me the beans on something, Janet," Kelly said after the ceremony, returning to McKendor and pulling her friend aside.

"Oh Kelly!" her best buddy cried, wrapping her in a tight embrace. "Eet'a been so long since-a I seen you…"

"Yeah, it's been a dick year. Tell me, though: why does everyone call me by that weird ass nickname?"

"You meansa 'K-Car'?! Ooh, eet's a loooooong story, I beens told eet all goesa back to that journ'list turned commandera, General Gramps…he have namesa for all the girls he save-a…seesa himself as theer pimp and the girls are his concubines-a with the pet names-a…eet's a terma of endearament, reallys…"

Kelly's Santa Cabezan eyes narrowed upon hearing this. That hotheaded, underhanded, hotshot paparazzi-turned platoon leader/ self-styled pimp—she would have to sic the Special Force on him next.

Just as the heroine was tallying up all the ways she could get back at General Gramps, she heard her friend cry out, "Heer it! Heer it! Eet'a the return of the Ed Guy!"

Kelly strained to listen, and could indeed make out the rotary sounds of a mother ship approaching the survivor area. Some individuals from McKendor and Gordonosis exited their sectors to ascend the steppes to the sacred grounds, where the mother ship was one day hoped to visit them. All cheered as they saw the Ed Guy at the helm of the ship; they were saved at last.

As the survivors—all sixty to seventy of them—clambered into the mother ship, which appeared to fit only six or seven inside but somehow accommodated all of the stragglers—Kelly was elbowed by Nate Gunspray, a porky middle-aged guy who for some reason preferred the water gun as his weapon of choice.

"Ow-right!" he said jovially as he moved toward the mother ship along with the others. "I'm so glad we're saved. You know, this could all make a great movie someday, you know? Say, what do you think?"

Upon reflection, Kelly realized that this all was like some film she had seen not too long ago…something involving laser swords, and unexplainable forces…rambunctious rebels, and an explosive resolution…

Then it came to her. Her favorite motion picture, the one that came out in 1987, the year she was born:

Spaceballs.


	22. Small Chain Saw

Gordon and Adam sit across from one another in Larry's butcher shop

(SMALL CHAIN) SAW

(OR, SAW BLADES)

Adam awoke to feel his face full of his false crimson curls, matted with some kind of sticky substance. He gasped and choked as he realized that his head was submerged in an unidentifiable mushy mess. The clown fought against several pounds of pressure upon his neck to bring himself to breathe air again.

"GRAHHH-UHHH!"

After rearing his head through the stuff and reeling back to take in a rush of the musty air around him, Adam squeezed open his eyes to encounter utter darkness.

"Help!" he squealed, still in his high-pitched clown inflection. The last thing he remembered before passing out was fighting that homeless-looking guy, that special-ed version of Ben Affleck, sort of. No, wait…that wasn't it…it was…

"Someone help me!"

This last phrase came out mega falsetto-castrato-soprano—even for his clown tone. And it wasn't "soprano" as in overrated New Jersey mobsters, either.

He ran his gloved fingers over his face, trying to figure out what the gooey substance was that covered it. Was this decomposed flesh? Did he turn into…one of those? The ones who took all the kiddies away, and who were themselves driven off by the Space Rider?

"Damn it, I'm probably undead, aren't I?"

"Y-you're not undead."

Adam strained to see in the void surrounding him. It sounded as if the voice were close by…too close. He reached his right arm out to the darkness, but was yanked back abruptly.

Something was holding him back, some sort of bond, a rope…

The clicking, chinking sound he then heard gave it away: a chain.

"Who's there? Who said that? Who…"

Adam then realized that his clown voice might have been scary while he could be seen, with his motley suit and freaky custom-made miniature chainsaws. But here, in this vacuum of blackness, it just made him sound tinny and impotent.

"Who's there," he asked again, this time in the manliest alto voice he could muster.

"I…" Before the other voice could respond, however, the room was drowned out by a creaking noise, then became flooded with light. Adam clutched at his face soiled with…something as he could barely make out another figure doing the same not far away.

A voice within the clown told him to get away, run, even roll away if you have to, just get away from the person right in front of you. Adam even braced himself for a somersault…then realized as his eyes settled on the chain attached to his right arm that it might be ripped off in the process of such a maneuver.

He turned to face the figure.

Cowering in the corner about four meters away was a stout, balding, somewhat prematurely aged young man. He looked pretty harmless, as if he didn't have the ability or wherewithal to hurt a fly, or one of those insects that started stinging people a few days back. He looked as if he got his clothes from the Goodwillamette, sporting nothing more than a natty green hooded sweatshirt and tattered red pants. As his own sight adjusted, he glanced over to the clown, and began to cover his face with his arms once more. Before he could fully do so, however, another sight captured his gaze, pinned it to the floor.

Between the two of them was a giant body lying face down, bordered by blood all around. The apparent corpse was dressed only in an undershirt, drab-colored pants, and invincible-looking boots.

It didn't look as if the boots kept the man from buying the farm, however.

"By my great…gramps…" was all Adam could say as he keened over to vomit in the bin next to him, a bin filled with…fresh meat. _So that's what it was, that's what's been on my face,_ he realized in the back of his mind while retching.

Lying next to the body was an oversized gun, an automatic sort of weapon, it seemed. Spent cartridges littered the grimy floor.

"Help! Help! HELP!" cried the clown in his higher voice as he yanked at his arm chain. "I'm gonna die down here! This isn't any fun!"

"N-no one can hear you, okay?"

Adam kept quaking, overcome by fright, but ventured to look over at the other man.

"Just c-c-calm down," continued the other occupant of the chamber; the way he quavered, it sounded as if he could use some of his own advice. The Goodwill-clad guy appeared to be just as scared as Adam, but was actually a bit more stable than the multicolored entertainer. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," returned Adam, again in his normal baritone. "I think I'm okay."

"Wh-what's your name?"

"My name is not-too-very-effing-amused!" shot back the clown. "Why, what's…what's your name?!"

"My name is G-Gordon Stalworth, I'm a doctor. I woke up here, j-just like you, just moments ago."

Well, it was true that Gordon was a doctor, though his face would turn redder than Adam's hair sometimes when asked what kind.

Adam pursed his painted lips a second, then tried his chains again. No go.

"You know this guy over here?" said the doctor again, shaking but pointing to the corpse between them.

"Ha ha ha…no." Adam kept pulling at what bound him, though he knew it was futile.

"Any idea how you g-got here?"

"No!"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Adam stopped struggling a second to face Gordon, and breathed a long, deep sigh.

"The last thing was that I was working at this job that I'm completely chained to, and now I wake up actually chained to…" He started pulling feverishly again as he trailed off.

"W-w-well, are you gonna tell me your name or w-what?" persisted the doctor.

Adam relented from the pointless chain-pulling once again. "Madam, I'm Adam, at your service…" The clown bowed as he said it, chuckling softly at the trite palindrome. Gordon rolled his panicked eyes.

Each man was more than a bit uncomfortable with the other. Adam didn't like how relatively relaxed Gordon was, with his pointing and his questions; and Gordon, well…how would you feel if you were chained to a wall just feet away from a raving, jibbering, seemingly psychotic clown?

"Well Adam," Gordon managed, with the brunt of his nerve, "we need to start thinking about why we're here…"

Suddenly another voice boomed through the chamber, emanating through some sort of public address system. This made Gordon dimly begin to remember what was going on…something involving a Santa Cabezan radical yelling something through the PA about ending it all…

"Rise and shine, Adam," the voice began, distorted such that its owner could not be determined. "You're probably wondering where you are. I'll tell you where you _might_ be."

Adam's head shot this way and that, looking for the person to whom the altered voice belonged, as if he or she would really show themselves.

"You might be in the room that you die in," said the voice. A chill ran up and down the ordinarily cheery clown's spine. "Up until now, you performed in the plaza, watching others laugh at your antics. But what do jesters see when they look in the mirror?

"I see you as a mix of someone lonely and sympathetic. But mostly just pathetic. So are you just going to watch yourself die today, Adam? Or are you going to do something about it?"

"I-I-I-I-I don't get it," stammered the clown as the message finished. It was Adam's turn to stutter his ass off.

Speaking of asses, the loudspeaker began to address Gordon and his line of work:

"Dr. Gordon Stalworth, this is your wake-up call," it began. "Every day of your working life, you, as the onsite proctologist at Parasol Corporation, have given people the news that they are going to require rectal rectification of some sort…sometimes even informing them that they have incurable anal cancer. Now you are going to be the anal cancer. Your aim in this game is to kill Adam."

The doctor looked across at the clown and exchanged shocked looks with him.

"You have until twelve on your cheap photojournalist watch to do it."

Gordon and Adam looked down at the prone behemoth before them, as well as the blood around him and the heavy gun nearby. The doctor also looked at the watch that he could swear wasn't there on his left forearm a second ago. The big hand was on the ten and the little one was on the eleven.

"There's a man in the room with you," the voice went on. "When there's that much Quickstep in your blood, the only thing left to do…is shoot yourself."

The two men looked somberly at the corpse, studying the blood soaking its head.

"There are ways to win this all around you. Just remember: it takes a town to raise a child. Shooting this clown should be as easy as offing a gaggle of zombies in a computer game, Doctor. If you do not kill Adam by noon, then Constance and Dakota will die. And I will leave you in this room to rot. Let the video game begin."

Then there was dead silence.

Gordon and Adam just looked at one another.

"Any idea who that was?" blubbered Adam, barely able to contain himself as he noticed that, although Gordon was just as chained up as he was, the doctor was almost able to reach the heavy machine gun on the floor.

Almost.

"I don't…I j-just…" Gordon trailed off as he could swear he heard something over the speaker after the silence, some sort of low static. "Wait!"

"What?"

"Wait…listen…"

"This is something you can sink your teeth into…This is something you can sink your teeth into…"

"What is that?" the clown asked.

"Hold on," spat the doctor impatiently. He strained to listen harder, and it became more clear.

"This is something you can sink your teeth into…This is something you can sink your teeth into…"

Again dead silence.

"What in the name of a walking punchline does that mean, 'something you can sink your teeth into'?" cried Adam.

Gordon said nothing, but looked over his surroundings. Then he saw it.

The sinks right next to him.

"There!" he said in small triumph, moving over towards the basins and looking in.

Lying inside each of two sinks was a small chainsaw.

Gordon pulled the two saws out and held them up before Adam.

"My SAWS!" shouted the harried harlequin. He wanted to do one of his patented backflips…and would have, had he not been so tied up at the moment.

The doctor nodded, and placed one of the minuscule tools next to the first sink as he attempted to apply the other saw's teeth—the "teeth" mentioned over the machine's message—to his chain.

Unfortunately, although such implements could cut a swath through almost three thousand unloving creatures, they did no justice to the chains that bound poor Gordon.

"HEY!" yelled Adam from feet away. "Mind passing me the other one?"

Gordon stopped sawing for a second, then grasped the other light blue chainsaw and threw it to the clown. Adam then began to join the doctor in a frustrating contest of who could uselessly chew into their chains the longest without their weapons snapping. The motley man lost, his small saw breaking as it slid against his metal bond for the umpteenth time.

"YEE-HA!" he cried in exasperation as he chucked the broken saw across the dank room. The unusable object flew through the air and bounced off a hanging slab of meat before skittering over to the exit to the room. The struck slab this way and that a bit, dropping pieces of flesh here and there. At the end of its slide across the floor, the chainsaw wedged itself between the flapping doors.

As Adam started to collect himself, he came to a disconcerting realization. "He doesn't want us to cut through our ch-ch-chains. He wants us to cut through our arms."

As Gordon discontinued his ineffective sawing, he dropped his multiple chins.

"Are you s-serious?!"

"I think I may know who's done this to us." Adam looked as if he were going to vomit bile instead of fire.

"Wh-wh-who?"

"It's not someone I know personally. Just someone I know of." Adam paused as he started to take it all in…again.

"I'll start from the beginning…"

The door banged open to the maintenance storage room—the one where the elusive maintenance key was stored—as three deputized mall personnel strode in. A tall black man, a young woman of mixed descent who was unhealthily possessed with spirits of the 1980s, and a stocky Japanese tourist looked around at a charred chamber full of ash and soot.

"Ugh, barf me out," began the girl as she tried to register the burnt remains of the room. "This is, like, ill to the max."

"We have to go through here, Kelly, and see if there are any survivors…or bodies," said the tall one, picking through blackened cardboard boxes that littered the floor. "We aren't going anywhere until we can secure a safe route out of here for anyone alive…if there is anyone in here that fits that description."

The third person walked up to the second speaker and handed him a glossy magazine. The latter man knowingly flipped open the periodical and read the expected text in the neon box within.

"Think seriously first, friend," read the magazine. "What kind of human being would make it through all of this?" The third one then waved his arms all around the room. "There's clearly something wrong with you."

"Shinji, it's our job as deputy mall maintenance crew to go through and look for survivors. That duty trumps all others…even my directives from DHS."

Kelly hollered from meters away.

"Like, Brad, like…look."

Brad Garrison turned his studly head around to see the first sign of life in the room…at least a sign that something might have been alive.

It was a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

Brad walked over to pick them up as Kelly continued talking.

"Check out all the boho clothes that are all over the place, too! There's, like, scraps of black fabric or something, in a line from the far wall to the door…"

The government-authority-turned-maintenance-man scanned the pieces of dark cloth all over the ground.

"Looks like someone tried to make his way through some sort of…blaze in here…judging by all the, like, burnt stuff in here, it's amazing he got as far as he, like, did."

Shinji quickly joined the two in staring at the fabric strewn all over the floor. Brad began checking towards the door when Kelly again started up, near the back of the room.

"Oop! I found a fag tag!"

Brad ran up to Kelly and yanked the small white label out of her hand. _Willagoth_, it read. Brad didn't recognize the brand name, but figured instantly to whom it most likely belonged…

Not long before, in that same room, all of the black fabric scattered across the floor was collected up into a single overcoat.

The bearer of that coat awoke to a voice not unlike that heard by Adam and Gordon, chained up in their chamber.

"Hello, Paul. You are a perfectly troubled, insane, outcast teenager. Yet a couple of hours ago, you let fly a Molotov cocktail across your groin. Did you burn yourself because you truly wanted to die, or did you take desperate measures to get people to…stop l-l-laughing at you, as you claim? This morning you'll show me."

Paul Carson quivered profusely as his bifocaled eyes darted around the room. All around him, cardboard boxes were inexplicably catching fire, and within seconds the entire room went up in flames.

"The irony is that if you want to die, you just have to stay where you are. But if you want to live, you'll have to burn yourself again."

The flames licked closer to Paul by the instant.

"Find a path through the blazing fire to the door; but hurry. At seven o'clock, the door in front of you will lock…and this storage space becomes a fireplace. You've got a lot of clothing on, Paul; pity none of it is flame-retardant. How many threads would you shed to stay alive?"

The last thing Paul heard before the roaring of the flames and his own screams was the clicking off of the Willamette PA system.

"There!" Brad shouted suddenly, pointing to something bright in the corner of the burned room. He and his two assistants ran over to see what it was.

A small, sky-blue chainsaw lay amongst the ashes.

"I think we're gonna be here for awhile, Shinji," said the erstwhile DHS agent.

"The transceivers all squawked out that he was "The Minisaw Killer," said Adam to his fellow prisoner as each settled uneasily into his chained state. "Actually, technically speaking, he's not really a murderer; he's never killed anyone. He finds ways for his victims to kill themselves."

"Hello, Mark," began the PA system in another section of the Mall—this time in the Annex to Colby's Movieland. A young man clad only in boxer shorts with hearts inscribed upon them (and the name ARTHUR across the ass) stirred within.

The recording continued.

"If you're not scared, then why do I have so many photos of you clutching a bat, pacing around and looking like you don't know what to do?"

Mark Quemada looked around to see several photographs of himself at Entrance Plaza, just before the undead unceremoniously strode in.

Then he noticed several of said undead standing right before him.

The strangest thing, though, was that he could swear he recognized some of the former people…

"Let's put your so-called…braveness to the test. Right now, there is a slow-acting Quickstep in your veins. The antidote is lying right outside your chamber, past the door around the corner. The combination to the code required to open the door is inscribed, number by number, on the back of the neck of each zombie bully you see before you. Do you remember these boys, Mark?"

The petrified survivor then realized that he was indeed looking straight at nine or ten excuses for humans who once pushed him around and made him feel small. The fact that they were now unliving made them exponentially more threatening.

"The clues of the order of the combination can be found…over the river and through the woods. Hurry up and program the combination in. But watch your step."

Mark winced as his bare foot crunched against a broken potato chip. Whatever monster put him in this place had scattered broken snack bag contents all across the floor.

He also noticed for the first time that there was some sort of film covering his skin.

"And by the way, that's a zombie-friendly substance smeared on your body, so I would be careful with those holes if I were you…"

"HELP! HELP! I AM SCARED! I REALLY AM!" shouted Mark, unable to help himself in more ways than one.

"Your last name means 'burnt' in Spanish. Well, Mark, taking to account that you are at a great disadvantage and that you are who you are, all of the bullies who've burned you with their acts just might prevent you from getting your revenge, even in the afterlife."

The relentless PA finally clicked off, leaving the poor boy smothered in Zombait to face his fate as the bullies approached.

Chips seemed to cackle at the deputy maintenance people as the snacks were crunched underfoot. Neither Mark nor bullying zombies were to be found in the Movieland Annex, however. Deputy Kelly approached Deputy Brad, holding a miniature chainsaw she just found against a wall.

"Looks like our friend Minisaw left us another, like, mini memento and stuff," she said.

"Get a rush on the prints," Brad told Shinji, who loyally bowed, grabbed the saw and ran off. The former DHS then turned to Kelly. "You found this in this chamber."

"Like, yeah?"

"You're sure?"

"What do I look like to you, like, some kind of joanie?"

"Kelly, I just think that it seems…"

"Look, if you want to slamdance about this, we can do it back at the security room. Let's just beat on out for now, hoser."

Days ago, before the undead came to usher in Armageddon at the Park View Mall, Dr. Gordon Stalworth was just doing his rounds at Parasol, checking out the asses. He had some interns with him, and some observers as well.

In particular, it seemed as if a certain Chinese chemist were watching him with the most carnal of intents.

"Okay," Gordon began, moving a pointer towards the x-ray of a gluteus maximus clipped to a whiteboard, "this patient has an inoperable right cheek tumor near the midline."

Near the doctor, a doomed man lay in bed, his camouflage clothing mostly covered by a sterile sheet.

"The patient has come in for a standard checkup by which we are able to monitor the way in which his posterior is reclining. The patient had…"

"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Dr. Stalworth stopped midsentence. Not him again.

A young man in a red vest and tacky khaki shorts ran into the room, gripping his camera tightly.

"His name is Brock, Dr. Gordon!" cried the boy, unable to hold his unbearable enthusiasm in check. "He's a very interesting and engaging person."

The doctor rolled his eyes as the other…organism spoke. Kent was always jumping in, bothering him at times like this. The prepubescent photographer told him before that a series of articles on proctology needed to be done for Highlights for Children, and that some photos had to be taken in the process. But it had been like four or five months now that Kent came and went while Gordon was on the job. How did the kid know where he was, constantly? And calling him "Dr. Gordon" instead of "Dr. Stalworth"; damn it, but he hated that. Didn't the little psycho have anything better to do with his time?

"Thank you for that information, Kent," Gordon responded condescendingly. He turned to the interns and observers, noticing the chemist, Jolie Wu, for the first time as she devoured him with her eyes.

"As you can see, anyone, even an interfer—I mean, an intervening freelance photographer, can form very special bonds with these patients."

Through all the white coats standing around, Kent glared at the doctor, looking as if he wanted to launch one of his patented jumpkicks.

Gordon again addressed his intended audience. "As I was saying, however…"

"I'm a pro," Kent interjected once more. "You're nothin'…NOTHIN'!"

The boy then finally did one of his gay whirly turns and scampered away.

Gordon allowed himself a deep sigh as he looked to his interns for play sympathy, and looked to that cute chemist flirtatiously.

"Hoo hoo hoo, stay away from there, Garrison!" shouted the clown as Deputies Brad and Shinji approached the operating device for the Space Rider in Wonderland Plaza. Adam knew of Brad's last name because he had been following what had been going on through tapping transceiver lines. Especially with this creature outbreak, it wasn't as if there were really anything else to do…no children to entertain, or people to take onto the Rider.

Before being shanghaied to the butcher's lair, Adam had barely recovered from his battle with that hobo photo guy. But recover he did, and after taking a lengthy powder in the men's restroom, he was as good as new.

He still wasn't in any shape, however, for the impending investigation coming his way.

"Jester Adam MacIntyre, I'm Deputy Garrison, this is Deputy Shinji, Mall Maintenance," began Brad.

Adam was clearly irritated by this arrival, but didn't want to give the mall authorities the wrong impression. It wasn't as if he had done anything wrong or anything. "Yeah…how can I help you gentlemen?" he asked.

Brad looked anally at the clown—as anally as he looked at anyone, really. "Are you able to tell us where you were between Case 6 and Case 7 this morning, Jester?"

Adam _hated_ being called "jester"; it was the basest of occupational slurs.

"Why is it that you're interested?"

"We'd like to ask you a few questions about it. I think it's best if we do it over at the security area. Would you like to follow us there?"

Adam looked at Brad. "I'm afraid that's…that's quite out of the question. My clown car broke down amidst all these zombies, and…"

A magazine was suddenly thrust in Adam's face and turned to the first page. Shinji pointed to the neon box as he spoke in Japanese.

"You can ride with us, Jester…we have a Michelle Club truck and everything."

The clown shook his head; these two were so relentless. "What was this about again?" he asked.

Brad pulled one of the miniature chainsaws out of his pocket and held it before Adam.

"Is this yours, Jester?"

The motley entertainer shook his head as Brad and Shinji studied him carefully.

In the small room next to the monitoring area of the security sector, Adam sat and waited. The deputies had their way with him, asking question after question…the clown just wanted to tumblesauce away.

The red door spanged open as Shinji made his portly entrance. He flung the Japanese magazine down dramatically in front of Adam.

"Your alibi holds up," the page read.

"Ho ho ho," laughed the clown. He was safe. "I'd like to go through the looking glass to Wonderland Plaza again now, please."

Shinji just pointed to the periodical again as he spoke. "We have one of the victims who managed to escape," it printed. "We'd like you to stick around and listen to her testimony. Maybe it'll trigger something, or you'll level up and remember more of what might have happened."

"I'd like to stay in this safe area, really, but…"

"We'd really appreciate it. She's the only one who made it…at least as far as our investigation has revealed."

Adam finally nodded, giving in. He looked through the open door, watching as Brad spoke with a young woman sitting on a small green bedlike thing. She had pretty, honey-colored hair and squarish glasses, and looked very much out of sorts.

"Janet…" began Brad, aiming one of his quasi-authoritative, quasi-fatherly looks at the girl, "in your own Willamette Mall time…tell me the first thing you remember."

Janet looked vacantly at the polished floor as she recalled the horror of what happened.

"I woke up…

"All I could feel was glass…

"…and metal."

Janet opened her be-bifocaled eyes to a mostly empty warehouse, one which a burly beefcake with sharky hair and a very, very crooked nose led her and her friends through just hours ago. But she was back now, back there alone…just about alone.

She found herself sitting in a chair, one of the comfy ones you can find in That's a Spicy Meatball! Her hands were pinned to the sides, and something was pinning her tongue to the roof of her mouth so that she could make noises but not speak. Unbeknownst to her, the adhesive was paste found near the toolboxes at Crislip's.

Then Janet saw the jars.

Though she still had on all her clothes from before, a glass container was affixed to each of her breasts, probably via the same adhesive as that which caught her tongue. The yellow lids were still on both jars, and she could barely make out something flitting within them. She also felt some kind of band around her upper torso, something that must have helped in holding the jars fast. She couldn't see it, but there was also a small, cheap watch attached to the back of what bound her.

To her left, a TV burst to life, the static startling Janet. She looked over to it.

Appearing on the screen was a manifestation of Whiskers, the giant pink bunny mascot of Willamette Park View Mall. Its mouth was distorted, however, such that its jaw hinged open and shut stiffly and mechanically. It was a mocking mock-up of the original rabbit.

It opened its "mouth" to address Janet. Had this not been such a dire situation for the poor girl, she might have bust out laughing at the puppet's awkward maw.

"Hello, Janet. You don't know me, but I know you. I want to play a game. Here's what happens if you lose."

The view then swept over to a female mannequin that wore a couple of pieces of raw meat on its chest.

"The device you're wearing is hooked into your sternum and sacrum. When the timer at the back goes off, the lids on the jars covering your chest will be forced open, and the queens within will be released to attack and zombify you…you know where. Think of it like a…literal booby trap. Here, I'll show you."

Another timer ticked in the background of the telecast as Janet watched the mannequin with widened eyes.

…tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…DING

SHCKSHCK

What happened next on the screen was nothing sudden, like a coiled trap springing open or any of that; no, it was much more dreadful and horrific. Janet looked on, petrified, as the queens flew through the jar openings on the mannequin and started stinging the raw meat. The video then sped up, showing the meat swelling more and more, over the course of seconds.

"Mmm! Mmm! MMMMM!" moaned Janet from her uneasy chair.

The camera panned back to the bunny. "There is only one key to open the device. It's in the buttocks of your dead cellmate. Look around, Janet. Know that I'm not lying."

The girl looked over to her right. In the corner was a heavyset woman lying face down, wearing a familiar blue uniform and handcuffs hanging from the belt…_oh, not her…not again…_

"You better hurry up, Janet," continued the bunny as the camera slowly closed up on its deformed face. "Live or undie. Make your choice."

The TV then briefly burst into static again and shut off.

Beginning to shake and sweat profusely, Janet struggled hard against her bonds, her wrists furiously rising against the cloth in a supreme effort to be free. A moment later she managed to liberate her forearms and stand up.

SHCLINK

A cord connected to the back of Janet's device was pulled as she rose from the seat, causing the timer to begin ticking.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick

This caused the girl to panic even more, and she grabbed desperately at the jars before her and the metal behind. Though the timer gave her only about sixty seconds real time, she seemed to spend like fifteen minutes prancing around trying to get the thing off of her.

As Janet went on Adam sat and stared, fascinated and a bit frightened.

"And then I approached the body…"

After Janet settled down a bit from her coffee-break-duration freakout, she turned to walk towards the carcass of the policewoman she knew all too well. She couldn't see it, but seven seconds had ticked away on her timer.

Wobbling with unchecked fear, she knelt down next to the cop's corpse. Janet never thought she would come this close to the monstrosity ever again. But now she had to; her life depended on it.

Janet reached around the front of the body, which was, again, lying face down. She undid the belt, the clasp of which clicked in time with her device's timer for an instant, and pulled down Jo Slade's pants.

Inscribed on the left cheek was a rather large question mark. On the right was an exclamation point of similar size.

"There was a rat stick…"

Janet's hands scrabbled across the floor to snatch up the small Ratman scepter, the surface of its purplish-pink bauble reflecting the image of the queen jars upon the girl's breasts.

The timer ticked about twenty-seven seconds by this point.

As the Star survivor looked upon the mooning monolith before her, she failed to notice the officer's face turning over to the side, slowly but most surely.

Just as Janet raised the rat stick over her head to strike…

BWAAAAAHHHHH

…She was greeted by the most noisy, noisome, angry anal protest from the punctuated ass.

"MMMMM!"

Janet couldn't help but emit a muffled scream as the stench wafted through her nostrils. Jo must have still been alive, somehow! She looked up and now noticed that Jo's face was turned on its side, the one visible eye open as wide as possible, a cyclopean plea for the Star to stop.

But the girl knew that every second counted. She once again pointed her stick downward, aiming between the interrogatory and the interjection.

SHUCK

"MMMMM!" kind-of-cried Janet again as she brought the chintzy stave down.

SHUCK SHUCK

"MMMMM!"

Blood spattered on the object again and again as the girl did her dirty but necessary work.

Deputy Shinji uttered something in Japanese. Adam looked down at the magazine.

"The policewoman had involuntarily ingested about ten Randomizers. It was such an overdose that she couldn't move or feel much of anything."

"You mean she…she was alive?"

"She was."

_Poor Jo,_ thought Adam. He knew her from around Wonderland, it was her regular mall cop beat. He talked to her from time to time; they even did dueling diets once, pity no one really won. Adam was a pretty lonely man. _But not that lonely,_ Adam reflected, scrunching up his nose.

"Then what happened, Janet?" asked Brad intently.

As forty-seven seconds ticked by on the timer, Janet reached into the pulverized posterior and eventually fished out the required key from so much rectal tissue. She reached around her back for a place on the device where the key could fit.

At fifty-seven seconds she found it.

CLUCKA CLUCKA CLICK

The metal bond around her midsection loosened, and, not wishing to chance anything, Janet shrugged off her lavender sweater. The top clanked to the ground, and…

SHCK SHCK

…the lids over the queens slid open…

…but Janet was safe, as the insects were trapped between the sweater and the unbreakable glass.

"EAHHHHH! EAHHHHH!"

Janet could only sit and shriek as she took in what had just occurred. She didn't even notice that her bra was replaced with the same kind of semi-shirt that her good friend Kay Nelson wore.

Out of the corner of her eye, Janet noticed something wheeling in.

A smaller version of Whiskers on a bicycle.

It was the same hair-raising hare from the TV. It turned its head towards Janet and flapped its papier-mache gums.

"Congratulations. You look skeezy now. Some well-endowed women are too prudish to dress provocatively. But not you. Not anymore."

Janet's tear ducts were full to bursting at this point. Brad leaned in close, to comfort and question at the same time.

"You are in fact a Size KKLJ. Isn't that right, Janny?"

The Star nodded through choke-wracked sobs.

"Do you think that is why he picked you?"

Again with the nod and sob.

"I notice you're wearing your sweater again. Are you prudish, Janny?"

Janet looked up, outraged. She opened her mouth, her tongue free once again to defend against this harassment. But even she was shocked by what came out.

"KNOCK IT OFF!"

The girl's hand shot to her mouth. That wasn't what she intended to say; she really wanted to voice something much more vindictive and explicit.

As Adam continued to watch the scene, he wondered why Janet was holding her hand to her mouth like that, and what other multiple motives Minisaw had to ensnare and endanger his victims.

"So you're positive it's this…Minisaw person that put us here," Gordon piped up, after several minutes of silence.

"Yeah, I would say so," said Adam, wanting just to curl up and seep into the floor. The proctologist's capacity for panicking seemed to know no bounds, and it didn't look as if it were going to end anytime soon.

As if to verify Adam's concern, Gordon took a step toward the other survivor. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?! You could be the one who shackled me here!"

The entertainer took a long, severe look at his cellmate. "I'm trapped in exactly the same scoop as you're in."

"Yeah, but…but you have things I don't…information! You related to me you've had a transceiver for the Park View, and you probably have had a mall map on top of that!" Gordon was getting increasingly agitated by the second. He picked up a sliver of shredded meat that fell from the hanging carcass not far away. "You tell me what's going on here, or you'll have some more meat on your face! Yeah, that's right, I saw that you had meat all over your…"

Gordon then stopped midsentence to gaze at the slice of murdered animal in his hand. It looked like it was not flesh but…rubber.

"This is a fake carcass, Adam," said the doctor, shaking the piece in his hand. "It's a rubber slab of…something!"

This made the clown think of his rubber chicken collection at home, a home that seemed so far away at the moment. He shed a brief tear.

Gordon then looked to the hanging slab nearby. Unlike the other suspended, deceased cattle in the vicinity, the one hanging closest was not dead flesh but a synthetic dummy of some sort. The doctor didn't have much to throw at the thing, so he just took off his shoe and chucked that.

PFFT

Another flap of the false carcass fell away to reveal an electronic eye.

"So we're the next ones on Reality Television," muttered Gordon. By free association he thought of that new sensation on WH-1, the local station in Willamette: _Sean Keanen is 62…and a Polygamist._ It followed the marital exploits of the elderly TV has-been, who was once a stunt double for Hannibal on _The A-Team._

As Gordon and Adam stared into the leering camera eye, a prepubescent hand waved at them plazas away, in front of a screen at Colombian Roastmasters. "You old sacks of crap," said the owner of the hand.

"I hope you're enjoying yourself in there!" cried the doctor, as he threw a couple more slivers of meat at the encarcassed camera. "This is the most fun I've had without Preparation H…at work _or_ at home."

Adam rolled his cosmetic-covered eyes as Gordon kept blabbering.

"I'm saving my other shoe to shove up your ass, Minisaw!" he exclaimed, pointing down at his one shoed foot. "I'll probe you with it right well! Probe you…you…"

The doctor then appeared to lose all his vitriolic vigor as he slumped down to the floor, suffocating in thought.

"What…what is it, Gordon?" asked Adam, piqued by the other man's sudden lack of energy.

"I'm thinking…I'm thinking of the last things I said to one of the women I love…and her daughter."

About a week ago, way before the quandary with the queens at Willamette, Constance and Dakota Hall were spending the night shacked up at Gordon's place at the edge of town. The woman and her daughter were absconding from an unsavory family situation wherein the man of their house, Roger Hall, had been embroiled in what appeared to be a torrid love affair with another local, Tonya Waters. Connie, of course, would have none of it, and fled with her little girl to her physician for the purposes of engaging a retaliatory affair.

Doctor Stalworth was more than happy to oblige the woman and child, and gave them the shelter they needed and deserved. At first, Connie found bliss at Gordon's ass estate, adored the man's deliberate, pudgy hands on her shoulders and cherished running her fingers across the skin of his scalp.

Before long, however, things unfortunately went south into the nether regions. The doctor was always busy with work, and when he wasn't toiling away at an actual patient matter, he was practicing his trade on a plastic proxy, studying for his advanced degree in probeology.

One night, Connie went to tell Gordon of how little Dakota supposedly saw a "man-boy" in her room, and caught the physician picking away at a plastic posterior. It was sort of like a game of "Operation," except instead of a game involving the whole body it just featured play-probing on a fake derriere.

It still had the small red light and buzzing sounds if you hit something bad, though.

"Gordon, sorry to bother you in the middle of practicing, but Dakota had another bad dream again."

"Just a second…" BUZZ "Damn!"

"She wants you to check her room…"

"Okay, just…just gotta finish trying to get this tumor…"

BUZZ BUZZ

"AGH! Alright, I'm coming."

And so Gordon dispensed with his glutes games and his proctologist's protocol for the day, and tended to small, innocent Dakota.

"See, Dakota? There's no such thing as the man-boy. No 24-year-old is capable of acting as childish as you say, so therefore he doesn't exist." Gordon gently applied the bedcovers to the child, helping her to her rest.

"I'm…I'm still scared," she said.

"You are? Here." The doctor got up and started towards a corner of her room. "Remember this one?" He then got on all fours and started crawling around. "Help! Please!"

"Hee hee hee," little Dakota laughed. She ran over to a Rainbow Tam Tam box she still had and started to whap Gordon with it.

"No! Get back!" cried the doctor playfully as he then began to crawl around on his spare bedroom's floor.

"Listen to me, jerk!" squealed the little girl with delight, whapping him some more.

"Sob," blubbered Gordon.

"You're comin' with me. Understand?"

"Ok…" said the doctor.

As the good proctologist rose from the ground to carry the girl back to her bed, a beeping sounded from around his belt.

"I hate that transceiver," mumbled Dakota.

"Well, I have to go to work, baby," said Gordon. "You know what an ass specialist's job is like."

"I…I love you, Dr. Stalworth," said Dakota. It had been several, several months—real time even—since the girl had said that to her own father; as such, it was quite a gold star for Gordon.

"I love you too, sweetie. Good night."

"'Night!"

It wasn't until many days after the evening Gordon left his residence to make an alleged house call for another's haunches, that the man-boy decided to show himself to Connie and Dakota.

As the mother and daughter had straggled into the mall through a hidden opening into Wonderland Plaza, they encountered what at first appeared to be a kid in some pathetic Peanuts ghost costume you saw on the Great Pumpkin Special.

Then, as if to confirm Connie's greatest fear, a juvenile monster man-boyifested himself from the sheets under which he hid.

And now it was that same man-boy who presided over the imprisoned Halls at the Roastmasters. He strode toward them with a camera in one hand and a handgun in the other. A stuffed bear three times the size of Dakota was atop a table not far away.

"Grraway fr hr!" gritted Connie through the spiked collar that covered her mouth.

Ignoring the woman, the semi-adult pointed his picture-taker at the weeping little girl's face and clicked away.

DRAMA: 150 read an indicator inside the device as an orange circle alighted over Dakota's features.

Unsatisfied, the excuse for an organism then pointed his gun to Dakota's temple, causing her to cry over her own collar.

"Mawwy! Mawwy! Mawwy!"

CLICK

DRAMA: 300

Then Connie again: "Kp yr hnds ff rr, mrrfkr!"

CLICK

DRAMA: 500

"Mawwy! Mawwy!"

"RRRRRRFKRRR!"

CLICK

DRAMA: 950

The Halls' tormentor then put down the camera and heaved up the stuffed bear, pushing it towards Dakota. The toy's weight caused the hapless girl to topple over.

"Rrrrrrfkrrr!"

The boy-monster turned to jog gaily towards the lookout onto Paradise Plaza.

Back at the security room, Deputy Brad Garrison watched the warehouse tape of Janet again.

"Hello, Janet. You don't know me, but I know you. I want to play a game. Here's what happens if you lose. The device you're wearing is hooked into your sternum and sacrum. When the timer at the back goes off, the lids on the jars covering your chest will be forced open, and the queens within will be released to attack and zombify you…you know where."

About a minute later, in walked Shinji from the vent with his best buddy Yuu. The latter went off to join the other survivors while the former massaged Brad's shoulder and threw his trusty magazine down in front of his partner.

"Hey Brad?" asked the window on the periodical's first page.

"Yes?"

"Ronald's doing a one-man-mutiny, to go down and get some frozen vegetables. You want some?"

"I don't think so. Maybe next mutiny."

"You know I always ask."

Brad turned back to watch more of the tape of the threatened teats.

"Think of it like a…literal booby trap. Here, I'll show you."

Looking on, Shinji then said, admonishingly through the magazine:

"Hey Brad? I don't mean to be disrespectful, but…maybe you and Jessie should be looking into gathering some supplies for the two of you…uh, wine, blankets, and the like."

"Huh," chuffed Brad, one-hundredth of him paying attention to the Japanese magazine and the other ninety-nine peeled to the screen before him.

The deputized DHS man then thought he heard something strange on the tape.

"…Look around, Janet…"

"…had it!" "Son of a…

Giving up, Shinji scooped up his issue of Japanese Conversation and turned his wide behind around to leave.

"Wait! Shinj!" cried Brad. "Get back here!"

Shinji said something in his native tongue that the other man didn't understand, but he came over regardless when Brad unexpectedly shouted "Yarichin!" (which means "male whore" in Shinji's language).

Brad rewinded the tape and turned up the volume.

"…buttocks of your dead cellmate. Look around, Janet…"

"I've had it!" "Son of a bitch."

"Remember the Northeast Quadrant of North Plaza?" said Brad.

Shinji just nodded.

Brad rewinded the tape yet again and ignored Minisaw's monologue.

"I've had it!" "Son of a bitch."

Shinji flipped his magazine back in front of Brad.

"Ah…the Huntin' Shack Survivalists…HSS. That trio's territory was only, like, one store."

"Now listen to this," said Brad. He fast forwarded the tape this time.

"Come on! Come on! Follow me! Follow me! Follow me! Over there!"

"We gotta ask that panhandler guy about all the rescues and escorts he's done around that area," grunted the DHS man. "Maybe he even knows of a secret hideout or something around there."

Nodding again, Shinji took his periodical, wobbled over to the mall's main hero, who was watching Nathan Crabbe wifebeat Bill Brenton into oblivion, and approached him.

Seconds later, the Park View Duo had all the information they needed. They threw on their matching Willamette jackets and headed out towards an attic of sorts that was now the lair of multiple masterminds.

Brad unsheathed his perpetual pistol and Shinji shouldered his shotgun as the two propped open a ceiling panel leading to what used to be the Keyes' laptop hideout. They moved in cautiously, leery of any dangers that might greet them.

About a minute later they reached the main area where all the Santa Cabezan gadgets and paraphernalia was stored. Brad walked forward, noticing a small, hollowed-out generator that sat by itself on a bench. He peered inside.

Within the shell of the generator were two Candy dolls, one wearing a red, curly wig and clown clothes, the other wearing what appeared to be thrift store bargain discounts.

"What the…" Brad started.

Suddenly a shifting across the area startled both men. A kitschy rug, the same one upon which a photograph-taking-tramp rested his weary, buffed body and saved his game, began to flop around atop some sort of…mass. "Hry! Anybdy arnd?!" shouted a muffled voice from beneath the rug.

Shinji cursed in Japanese and ran to the mass, pulling the rug off. A gagged, moderately obese man with glasses, a red golf shirt, and golf club in hand, was tied to some kind of…machine. On either side of him was a nail gun, each pointing toward a side of his head.

"Sir, if you would kindly come with us, we can wrap this whole thing up," said Brad, as calmly as he could. He removed the cloth from the man's mouth.

"That'd be great, fella," replied the captive survivor.

PFFT, PFFT

Someone was coming up the other ceiling panel way to the hideout.

Shinji shook his magazine at Brad. "Oh , here comes Minisaw!"

"Wait, Shinj!" said Brad, shoving the gag back into the bound man's mouth and placing the rug over his head again.

"What?!" the magazine glowed as Shinji glowered.

"Let's see what he's gonna do," said Brad.

"But we've got the psychopath."

Brad already made up his mind, however. He grabbed the tourist deputy by the scruff of his neck and crouched in the corner of the made-up room. "We need to stick…to…the shadows. Got it?"

Shinji nodded assent as a robed figure stalked across the catwalks to the area where the kidnapped golfer was tied up.

The two temporary maintenance men watched as the murderer turned to his latest victim and pulled over the rug again. They couldn't make out a face…

"Awake already, Jeff? I need more powerful True Eye Mist next time."

Almost as if in response, this "Jeff" began to bawl uncontrollably. "Uh…uh…ohh…"

"Don't cry. I've given your life a purpose. You're a test survivor for something greater than yourself."

Unable to wait any longer, Shinji stood up with his shotgun and started shouting in Japanese.

Minisaw slowly turned around. The deputies couldn't believe it; they were not greeted by a face but rather a mannequin mask. This bastard was that tricky.

Shinji continued raving as he pointed his weapon at the killer.

"What?" said Minisaw, his voice still cloaked by some distorting device. "I don't understand Japanese."

As Brad stood up to join Shinji in the gun-pointing, the latter man one-handedly whipped out his magazine and threw it at Minisaw's feet. "Put your hands in the air!" reported the neon box on the first page.

The murderer paused a second, then quickly pressed a button nearby. A "Ding!" sounded, similar to that issued when one called an elevator in Park View.

The nail guns on either side of Jeff began firing little thumbtacks at the man's face.

"Now you'll make a choice," uttered Minisaw through his mask. "In twenty seconds—four minutes Willamette time—enough tacks will fill this man's brain to end his life."

"What did you do? Turn it off!" blared the lines in the magazine.

"Are you insane?!" shouted Brad, taking a step towards the madman.

"One key will unlock the device holding this man."

Jeff's face continued to fill with little stickers, now a red one, now a blue one, now a pink one.

Shinji looked around desperately. "Where's the key?" the magazine printed.

"It's in the cardboard box."

The porky deputy knee-dropped the box, causing a host of small black keys to fall out. ", which key! Which key?!"

"Time is running out…this case will expire very soon," crooned Minisaw.

"Tell him which key it is!" yelled Brad, his pistol to the murderer's head.

"What's more important to you, Deputy, arresting me or escorting a survivor to safety?"

"Get down, Minisaw," ordered Brad, forcing the killer to his knees.

"Brad! Brad!" shouted Shinji in the background, more and more frantic by the second.

"You're sick," spat the DHS Deputy to the maniac.

"Yes, I am sick," the mannequinned man responded. "I'm sick of the disease eating away at me inside. Sick of people who don't appreciate being rescued. Sick of those who push people over for no reason."

Exasperated, Shinji pulled his shotgun up and blasted each of the nail guns. Brad turned his head for a fatal second.

"I'm sick of it all!"

A hidden mannequin arm suddenly popped through Minisaw's sleeve into his hand. With a quick flourish, the killer literally backhanded Brad in the throat with the object, knocking the agent's voice box for a loop.

"Urf," was all Brad could say to that.

"Brad!" shouted the magazine as Shinji scarfed it up off the floor and ran to his partner. The deputies' quarry, meanwhile, dropped the mannequin arm and ran off towards one of the ceiling openings.

"Brad, no, Brad!" the neon box quailed, Shinji shaking the periodical in the other man's face. "I'll be back, okay?" The tourist again shouldered his shotgun, now on the most deadly and drastic of missions.

Jumping down from the ceiling aperture, Shinji scanned the area carefully, slowly moving forward with shotgun cocked before him. Deliberately he paced a few steps, turning toward his left to face the Huntin' Shack.

"Freeze or I'll shoot!" he shouted in Japanese to the retreating robed figure, who failed to stop at the words.

Shinji took aim and fired. Minisaw plopped face down onto the ground.

Above the men, Brad managed to get to his feet, grabbing the mannequin arm and holding his throat as he shuffled towards the ceiling gaps.

As slow as a Komodo closing in on its kill (even though we're not in Indonesia), Shinji approached the downed perpetrator. He was good with a gun; the best actually. No photojournalist derelict could touch his skills with a shotgun; hence, he was dubbed "Shotgun Shinji" by those on the deputy maintenance force.

It was a shame, however, that Shinji's trap detection abilities did not match his shotgun skills.

The tourist trooper never noticed the small cord he scored with his chubby shin, causing the series of clicks above him.

SH-SH-SH-SPLAT SPLAT SPLAT!!

As he looked upward, the last thing he saw was coconut cream careening into his face.

The area in front of the Huntin' Shack was now occupied by a Japanese tourist with five Colombian Roastmaster pies all over: on his face, his limbs, his corpulent torso. His body slumped to the knees, spasming for an instant, then fell forward.

After a couple more seconds, Minisaw slowly regained his feet, unharmed. Looking back upon the mess that was now Shinji, he then turned again, looking like a mentally challenged heavyweight champ with his cheesy robe, and walked into the Shack.

A beat later, Brad finally dropped down onto the North Plaza floor and hobbled over to the horrific sight. He witnessed what was left of his partner.

Unable to scream because of his damaged voice box, the man could only open his mouth, lift the mannequin arm, and point the thing's hand toward Shinji's body.

"Had you…had you on your knees," raved Brad raspily as he watched the monitors back at the security area. His partner was lying on the green bed thing, a pie plate permanently affixed to his face like a dessert version of Baron Zemo.

"You're running…you're running," continued the former DHS agent, his eyes scraping the screens more intently than Otis ever could. "I'm gonna solve this case. I've gonna solve it. The next case will begin at 12:00pm. Right, Shinji?"

Over on the bed, the tourist could only begin to lift his magazine halfway, then dropped it back down.

"Yeah, we're gonna close it Shinj, heh, heh, heh…"

Things were looking very grim for the survivors of late. Minisaw was beginning to play with all of them. The door to the first room on the right would shoot open every random few minutes or so, forcing poor Susan to the ground again and again. Some of the food began to disappear without a trace, making Ronald more ornery than ever and looking to turn cannibal. He started to stare at Cheryl hungrily—and not out of lust.

And some food was tainted such that its consumer would begin to hallucinate. Poor Heather found herself stuck in the corner, waving off constant propositions by a tall, imposing Lego-ish figure.

"I've given your life a purpose…to serve Servbot," said the image before her.

"No!" she retorted defiantly, waving her hands in front of her then crossing them over her chest.

"Yes…the novelty masks at my feet represent the quiver of children you're to give me," insisted the figure.

"No!" More arm waving and crossing.

"You're my Child's Play soulmate, Heather…it's meant to be."

"No way!"

"Come…give in…succumb to Servbot."

"NO!"

"Aw, come on…please?"

"No way!"

"I'll throw in a free frisbee."

"No way!"

"I'll make you learn to love me, you bitch."

"NO!"

And on and on.

"Takes a town to raise a child…takes a town to raise a child…" Gordon looked all around the dismal chamber for a clue to the cryptic statement Minisaw left for him and his cellmate. Nothing was panning out. "We have to find something that signifies what this monster was talking about."

The put-upon proctologist looked over to said cellmate, who was absorbed in Gordon's miniature chainsaw. Adam looked at the tool-cum-weapon hungrily, as if wanting to snatch it up and put it to a fleshly, deathly task. Of course, this was upsetting to the doctor in more ways than one, as he wished for the other man's help, and certainly didn't wish for the apparently gonzo entertainer to turn on him out of desperation.

"Excuse me," said Gordon to his fellow prisoner, his patience almost totally expended. "You want to help me figure this out or not?"

"I'm trying to figure it out!" spat Adam. "They didn't teach us these kinds of riddles in clown college. Just the 'ha-ha' kind."

"Well, have you come up with anything?!"

"I don't know…" Adam was also at his wits' end—quite an extreme for someone whose livelihood's lifeblood consisted of nothing but wit. "Maybe I'd think better if you didn't bug me so much! You're asking me 53,594 questions!"

"Well, I want 53,594 answers!"

Gordon stopped for a second and thought. "Wait. It takes a town…Adam, the population of Willamette…"

"…Is 53,594," the clown finished for him. "Everyone around here knows that; it's been like that since before the flood."

Indeed, that little particular number had been the community's head count for almost a generation by now. The town's municipal authorities had strict limits on population growth and regulation; a local census was never needed. The second someone died—be it by old age, by accident, or otherwise—a gracious young couple would volunteer to have a newborn baby in that dead person's place. Yokels knew the population of the town just like they knew their date of birth or social security number.

"So, then, Adam…we have to find something that contains that number…or could contain it." Gordon looked around; how could they find such a strange set of digits in this dingy prison?

Then he saw it: the locker nearby. The one with the letters HRIE. Underneath the label was a combination lock…with five digit places.

"There!" the doctor cried, his hands rushing to the mechanism. Within seconds he dialed in the combination, 53,594, and yelped in triumph as he heard the glorious noise of the lock's release. He pumped open the small compartment.

Popping out almost instantaneously was a diminutive doll, a make pretend girl with blonde hair, a pink dress, and blood all over.

"That's Spacy Claire!" squeaked Adam upon seeing the doll. He held his hands to his mouth almost instantly after making the statement. He knew his credibility was already called into question just by virtue of being a clown…a mall clown at that. He didn't want Gordon to think even less of him for making a fuss over a small toy—especially when that toy meant so much to him, so much that the proctologist would probably never understand.

_Poor girl, I couldn't save her,_ thought the jester to himself as he looked on the small possession in Gordon's hand. _Little Claire, such a nice girl…_ Spacy Claire was in reality a surrogate for the child who was lost to the ghouls…but at this point, Adam felt that he had lost it to an extent that he no longer knew the difference anymore.

Gordon turned the doll over and, to Adam's suppressed horror, started doing what he did best: probing.

He took off the toy's dress, feeling around for something in the prosthetic girl that could give them a clue as to what to do next. Finally he felt a grove between Claire's shoulder blades and pulled. It was all Adam could do to keep from crying out at the horrific autopsy of his Claire…she was once again being torn apart by a force beyond her control. But a rational, if small, section of the clown's brain realized that this procedure was somehow necessary…and so he kept his mouth shut.

Inside the doll, Gordon found a couple of small treasures. First there was a transceiver. Adam momentarily forgot about his tiny girl friend and shouted out with glee.

"A transceiver! The most beautiful invention in Willamette!"

Then there was a small container of yogurt.

"Make that the second most beautiful invention!" Adam again remembered how he and Jo were on competing diets, and how during that time he became so addicted to certain healthy dairy products. No more golden brown pizzas for him! "Give it here, Gordo!"

"Are you kidding me?!" the doctor responded. "You're gonna put something we found in here, in your mouth?"

"I'm willing to risk it! Pass me that sweet culture!"

Before Gordon complied, he looked down at the third object within the false Claire: a small folded-up note. _Shh, Procto,_ it read.

Gordon detested that epithet infinitely more than Adam could ever hate "Jester." Just as whores have been called "Prost" over time, ass monkeys such as Dr. Stalworth were sometimes dubbed "Procto."

Regardless, the posterior physician opened the note:

_The yogurt is healthy, I promise. Dairy is only deadly if you step up its consumption too quickly. Think about this—you don't need a heavy machine gun to kill Adam._

"May I please have the yogurt?!" the clown complained.

Gordon ignored him. "I'm going to try the mall cops on this transceiver." He dialed the appropriate numbers…but nothing came. Nothing, that is, but a strange, lingering beeping…somehow familiar to the doctor. "This was meant to receive irritating calls; not make them."

Then it struck Gordon. He had heard this sound before…

He was out on the rooftop; it was about three in the morning on the 22nd. He had just finished a smoke, and a nice little talk…with _her._ The woman of his lust-filled fancy fantasies.

She started off for the vent before him, angrily, her winsome figure snaking through the duct. He was about to follow, with his considerably chubbier frame…when all of a sudden the Parasol transceiver he wore had started to go off.

BAYEEP BAYEEP BAYEEP

_How could there possibly be a call-in for an ass emergency at a time like this?! _Gordon wondered to himself. _The town's overrun right now by things from beyond hell._

BAYEEP BAYEEP BAYEEP

There it sounded again. He couldn't understand. Didn't see how it could possibly be.

Also didn't see the figure with the golden raincoat creeping up on him while he was attempting to work through his device's difficulties.

Just as Gordon began to take apart his communicator, alongside the ledge upon which countless survivors had tripped on their way to the vent, a tap happened upon his shoulder.

He turned around…saw the green mask…

…and then found himself in the chamber with the clown.

Oh, how Gordon wished he could be with his lady love right now. The one from the ledge, breathing in the relatively crisp, fresh air of the mall rooftop…or his Constance, that source of consolation for all of his probeology problems…

He thought of Constance and Dakota, and he raged against that which held him.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THEM YOU _BOSTARD?!_" the doctor yelled, lapsing into a British accent at the end for no reason at all.

Breathing heavily from his minuscule fit, the unfit doctor began to collect himself. "I've got to think…got to think…"

He looked down at the note from inside Claire again.

_Think about this…you don't need a heavy machine gun to kill Adam. When there's that much Quickstep in your blood…the only thing left to do…is shoot yourself._

Gordon had an idea.

"God I feel gassy," he said, turning to his cellmate, "must have been all that canned squid I bought at Seon's." For some reason, squid really _did_ make Gordon gassy. The doctor then did the deed—several deeds, a series to be exact—to demonstrate this.

The proctologist prayed that Adam picked up on his Morse code message: that the entertainer should pretend that the yogurt they had was poisoned and that he should feign the physical effects of such tainted food accordingly by fainting onto the ground and then convulsing to death.

Thank whatever god created the pair; the commonality of gluteal communication and humor, and other such "asspects" between the prankster and the proctologist, made the message clear between both. Hopefully Minisaw wouldn't pick up on their little ruse.

About a minute or so later, Gordon: "So, uh…you still want that yogurt?"

"Um…yeah! Sure!"

Gordon carefully picked up the small snack and tossed it to the clown. The latter scooped it up eagerly and just drank it out of the cup.

He stood there a second, apparently absorbed in the pleasure of the preservatives he just imbibed.

Then he grabbed at his throat. Oh, but something was wrong with the fruity morsels within him! He began to shake, and quake, rear his head back, then finally forward again, spewing forth all sorts of bits of what he ate all over the doctor. Never had Adam ever expelled fire with such force.

Then he quivered and quavered some more, squawking and spasming, seemingly in an involuntary fashion.

Then, at last, he collapsed to the ground.

Gordon waited a couple of seconds, then shouted to the camera inside the faux slab of meat. "There! I've done it! I've killed him with the yogurt, just like you wanted. Now where's my Connie! Where's Dacky?! Where are they?!"

The doctor had never shared his pet name for Constance's little girl with anyone before; he had hoped that this serial killer appreciated this small divulgement.

On the ground nearby, the clown playing possum was taken up with only one thought: _Dacky?!_

BZZZZZZZZZZ

"AAAAAAOW!" cried the entertainer as a host of volts shot through his body. His pudgy body flopped all around as it took in all the electricity.

"What?! What happened?" Gordon couldn't believe that this failure at life could screw this up too.

"Aaaaaow!" repeated Adam. "I just got the joy buzz of my life, that's what!"

"You friggin' failure!" screamed the doctor. "That was our own little secret passageway back to the plazas!"

"You out-of-shape, frumpy faced…get me out! Get me out of here!!"

Adam started to once again pull at the chain upon his arm, looking crazily around for something with which he could cut through it. If only he has perfected those explosive balloons before falling into this predicament…

"Wait a minute," he said aloud, coming to a realization between the electric shock and the sight of Spacy Claire. "I remember everything now. I remember how I got here."

At 7:00p.m. on September 21st, while hordes of creatures clumped around various emporiums in Wonderland Plaza, Adam was holed up in the Contemporary Purses not far from the Space Rider, doing what he could to repel his boredom and retain his sanity. He'd managed to scoop up a few of the True Eye's pink posters pasted all over the walls and attach them to a couple of closet doors, for purposes of dagger target practice.

"Here, Gramps!" he said to one roseate leaflet as he buried another knife in the center of its featured eye. "Here's blood in yer eye! Hee hee haw haw haw…"

The clown's raucous laughter quickly died down in the ensuing moments, however, as the weight of his situation hit him full force. _Face it, Adam,_ he admonished himself. _You're all washed up. You're out of a job now that this unliving apocalypse has come. You can't even beat up a beggar with a camera. What are you going to do?_

"I…I…" Adam stopped his tormenting thoughts with a yawn. "I'm going to go to…YAWN schleep, that's what."

Although the motley mall showman had only been awake for about 35 hours straight, he couldn't keep his ivory-hued eyelids open any longer. He lacked the endurance owned by poverty-stricken wartime paparazzi, and as such his body's ability to remain awake was rapidly waning. Slowly he reclined into a position not unlike that of a baby in a womb. Some monsters passed by the front of Purses as the fetal fool relented into the normal state of diurnal unconsciousness. Adam didn't care; after all, the things usually stayed away from him anyway, since his caricature-ish cosmetics kept him from resembling an ordinary morsel of human flesh.

…

…

The next time Adam opened his eyes, it was to much darker surroundings.

It wasn't pitch black exactly—the clown could still see his gloved hand in front of his face—but everything was not as illuminated as Adam would have preferred. He picked himself up and paced out to the Plaza walkway, peering over the railing.

Dozens of pairs of red zombie eyes lit up the ground floor, coming off like the brake lights of countless cars in an impossible destruction derby.

"Great!" the entertainer exclaimed, "here we go again, another sleepless night. Seems like there's even more of them now…"

HOO HOO HOO HA HA HA…

The red thatch of synthetic curls atop the clown's head rustled about as their owner looked this way and that for the source of the eerie sound he just heard. What was that? Some kind of laugh…

"Is someone there?" Adam asked to the semi-void surrounding him. He reached into one of his suit's limitless pockets and took out an uninflated blue balloon. Hopping from one foot to the other, he puffed air into the little rubber bag until it swelled to a size that rivaled his own.

Once Adam was finished inflating the balloon, he set it off to bounce toward where he thought he heard the sound.

bump, bump, bump, POP!

A small explosion issued as the balloon hit something in the distance. _That's strange,_ thought the clown, _usually my balloons don't break unless they come into contact with a person…that's how the gag's supposed to work._

He pulled out another balloon, a green one this time, and once more began puffing away, hopping from one foot to the other nervously as he did so.

bump, bump, bump, POP!

Adam could make out the slightest silhouette of a tiny person lying just near the railing leading up to the Space Rider.

Stealthily he rolled forward three times, ending up in the center of the landing right before the ride. He then looked over to the railing.

Again: HOO HOO HOO HA HA HA…

It didn't sound like a living man or woman's laugh, but rather like some kind of recording. Adam jumped toward the small outline of a person, and found neither human nor ex-human, but simply a small doll.

It was Spacy Cliff.

The boy doll from the Space Rider…the surrogate Adam used to replace the poor old man who was grandfather to sweet, young Claire. Oh, how the clown wished he could have saved those two…they were probably the best audience he'd ever had. Adam gave Cliff Hudson and his granddaughter a private show just before the monsters alighted into Wonderland…and both goers were so wonderful, not mean-spirited or heckling as so many customers were.

But then little Claire was grabbed by a zombie and never released…and Cliff just…lost it…

HOO HOO HOO HA HA HA

Adam gritted in frustration as the demonic doll again spewed forth its malicious laughter. He walked over to a nearby trash can and dumped out the contents. Sure enough, the baseball bat for which he hoped came tumbling out, along with infinite fast food wrappers and other such refuse. The entertainer hunched down, picked up the weapon, and beat his beloved Cliff proxy to death with it.

HA HA HURR HURR HAWWWWW…

The clown cleared his brow of sweat as he did so; God, but he really didn't want to do that, especially to one of his most prized possessions at the moment. But all this was driving him to a plateau of madness he had never before quite experienced.

He looked over to the Space Rider, toward the controls, to see if the zombies had completely overtaken that area as of yet.

He saw no shadows of such creatures…

…but he could swear he made out the shadow of something else.

He whipped out a yellow balloon, hopping and puffing a third time. Adam sent the object careening towards the controls.

bump, bump, bump, POP!

"Who's that?! Who's there?!" shrieked the clown, rolling toward the control panel, toward some outline of a person whose yellow clothes, he could barely make out, matched the sheen of the balloon he just launched.

"I'll kill you, you rubber chicken plucker!"

Adam took out one last balloon, this one as red as his false curly locks, as red as his faux nose…as red as a dreary smear of blood.

He could not keep from hyperventilating as he hopped from one foot to the other, placing panicked puffs into the balloon.

bump, bump, bump, POP!

The raincoated figure before Adam remained standing before him, completely unaffected by the gas that Adam somehow inserted into each of his balloons.

It rushed towards him with a speed that defied that of the clown's tumblesauces.

"AAAOOOWWW…" he cried in abject fright.

Adam now looked to another figure before him…that of Gordon Stalworth, trapped in the same scoop as he, waiting for some kind of inevitable fate. The clown couldn't discern what was on the doctor's mind as the two sat there.

He was unaware that the other man's mind was partly far away, thinking of more pleasant things.

Gordon had looked upon Adam several times in the past few minutes, trying to marshal the most of what passed for courage. This was all like some sinister scene from a horror film, or section of a novel…heck, just like it; with the underground atmosphere and the evil clown…

Possibly for the first time amidst his terror, Gordon heard the sounds of the monsters shuffling about outside their chamber.

_We all skulk down here,_ he thought to himself. He also thought of another part of the novel of which he was thinking in particular, the Stephen King one…the part where the chubby kid writes the haiku to the flame-haired girl he adores. Being the philandering proctologist that he was, Gordon had had several conquests behind him…and several in the making. As he looked across the dirty glass in the survivor area and marveled at the unchaste perfection that was Kay Nelson, he thought of three lines that could compete with the King verse:

_Your hair is Frosted Flakes._

_Whole-grain wheaty breakfast._

_My mouth yearns for that food._

Oh, how Gordon wished he could _sing_ that to the young, wayward waif. He…

BRRRNG, BRRRNG

BRRRNG, BRRRNG

The transceiver.

Gordon plopped down back to earth from his reverie, watching Adam carefully as the thing continued to ring for a few more seconds. At last, moments later he picked up the small yellow communicator and clicked it on.

"Wh-wh-who is this?" the doctor began, nervously.

"Dr. Stalworth?" sobbed out a tiny, tinny voice.

"Dakota?"

"Doctor, is that you?"

Gordon did his best to stifle a couple of tears. "Yeah, baby, it's me."

"I'm…I'm scared, Doctor."

"It's okay, honey, everything's going to be allright…"

"The man-boy is here, Doctor! The 24-year-old I told you about…he has me and Mommy…"

"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Gordon knew that laugh all too well.

"Dacky? Dacky?!" the proctologist cried into the phone. "Dacky, are you…"

"Beautiful!" another, pre-teenish sounding voice shouted into the phone. "How you like them apples, Gordy!"

CLICK

"Dacky? Dack…"

The transceiver was silent.

The doctor raked his hands over his face in anguish, wishing only to speak to his lover's daughter once more. That…child who interrupted them…

A wave of revulsion drowned Gordon Stalworth as he realized who the "man-boy" now was.

"Kent," he started, almost manically, "Kent, you perverted little psychopath…you're gonna pay for this! You _bostard!"_

Again with the unexplainable British accent.

_Dakota…poor Dakota…and that little jackass probably has Connie too. If only I had paid a bit more attention to them…if only I gave them a bit more love…instead of spreading myself thin…well, thick, I guess, with my body…across so many women…_

Gordon thought of the survivor with whom he made time on the mall rooftop.

The fawning, doe-eyed Jolie Wu.

The slim Asian woman and the slob of a Caucasian man sat on the step leading to the vent for a long time. Jolie slid her hand across Gordon's wide thigh suggestively…and was a bit shocked to find the doctor gently guiding it off a second later.

"Look…it was wrong of me to make you come here," the doctor began, looking the chemist square in the face. He thought of Constance and her daughter as he spoke.

"But…" Jolie said, "I thought…you and me…me…and not Rachel...for once…"

"Please, Jolie," Gordon cut in softly. "I'm sorry."

The schlub of a man eased off of the step to give the woman some space. As Jolie placed her hand to her face and slowly settled to the ground, sobbing, just as she did in Gramma's Kids, the small yellow communicator sounded at Gordon's hip.

He put the transceiver the transceiver to his ear.

"Hello?"

A pause.

"I know what you're doing…Procto!"

CLICK

The balding ball of blubber just stood there as the device went dead. About a minute later, he looked to Jolie, who was still kneeling on the concrete, mourning her dearly departed affair.

"I…I have to go."

"What…"

"I'm sorry…I've got to go."

He started off toward the vent.

"Wait!" cried Jolie, running closely behind. "I want to go too! Take me with you!"

"I'm…I'm sorry, Jolie."

"MMMPH!"

Hell hath no fury like a Wu scorned. With all her might, the woman managed to shove all of the bulk that was Gordon Stalworth to the ground. She was too much of a lady to curse or strike the man beyond pushing him, so she gave the passage to the security area a hard slap instead, to literally vent her frustration. Her defection from the doctor complete, Jolie pumped into the passage.

Now Gordon was out there all alone…so he thought.

Before the doctor could reach into his memory any further, the baritone of Adam MacIntyre interrupted him. "Wh-what time is it, by the way, Doctor?"

Gordon looked down at his mendicant's wristwatch.

It was a second to noon.

"Are you alright?" the slovenly dressed tramp asked Connie as he loosened her bonds. Somehow Frank West had a knack for untying the most Gordian of knots in the course of about 3.5 seconds. The freelancer had just bounded into the Roastmasters a moment ago, while the Halls' captor was off jump-attacking the undead and snapping his best photos of their prone forms.

Before the woman could answer Frank, the latter went and untied Dakota. "Are you alright?" he asked again, almost robotically.

"Thank you so much," Connie blurted effusively. "We were going to be…"

"Sorry, I gotta go," said the photojournalist callously. "If I'm to get that reputation as a gourmet and a clothes horse, I've got to hurry up, don a few more glasses and shoes, and eat some spoiled pizza and melted ice pops. Later!"

The mother and daughter were mystified as the man then jumped out through the lookout to Paradise Plaza. _What a jerk,_ thought Connie, unwittingly mimicking the same exact phrase uttered by several other middle-aged women whom Frank saved over the past several hours.

"Well, well, well, ladies…Dr. Gordon's time is up. Now I've gotta do what I gotta do, and…well, Mrs. Hall, it'll have to be you that tells the good doctor that his scoop chance is lost." The twentysomething toddler looked at Connie's forlorn expression. "Nervous? I get it, we're all nervous when we're going to die. But I'll tell you what; I'll give you my best shot."

Connie looked at Kent's camera and not his handgun.

"No, ha ha! Not with _that,_ I'm afraid. With _this_."

The childish Kent then dialed the transceiver.

Gordon scooped up the implement from the floor upon hearing it ring.

"IS THAT YOU KENT YOU _BOSTARD_?!" he shouted.

"Gordon?"

"Connie?" the doctor asked, surprised.

Connie looked directly at Kent.

"Scoop chance lost!"

Kent was propelled backward, and the transceiver was ejected upward, by the force of Connie's uppercut. The amateur picture taker immediately jumped back to his feet, only to be cast into a table and chairs by his erstwhile captive's left hook. Connie ducked down to grab Kent's gun before he could again rise to face her.

"Don't move, you microscopic psychopath!" she yelled, pointing the barrel of the boy's own pistol at its owner. "Give me the transceiver. Give it to me!"

Obeying, Kent slowly slid the device to the woman. She carefully picked it up, keeping her weapon trained on her enemy.

"Gordon?" she said into the transceiver.

"Connie!" exclaimed the proctologist. "Are you alright?"

"No…no, we're not…get down, you little jerkoff!" Connie went up and kicked Kent in the ribs for good measure. "Where are you, Gordon?"

"I'm…I'm chained up…in a butcher shop, it looks like. At the Park View Mall."

"The Park View? That's where I..."

"Mawmmy!"

The sound of Dakota's irritating voice caused Connie to shift her attention toward her little girl for a second…which was a second too long. Taking advantage, Kent jumped again to his feet and attempted to swipe his handgun from Connie's grasp.

"No…get off, you little jackass!" the girl's mother cried, trying her best to retain dominion over the weapon.

The ensuing struggle caused a couple of shots to fire wildly from the pistol. Frank West, who was taking a breather on the yellow ledge just outside, was in midjump when one of the stray bullets struck him in the head. As a result, the photojournalist went straight down.

Only to get up a second later. "Damn it!" he muttered under his breath as he set off to achieve a few more things. He hated it when that happened.

"CONNIE!" yelled Gordon on the other end of the connection, deep in the earth in his chamber of despair.

Kent and Connie continued to combat, each of their sights on the gun. Said weapon fired again and again as the woman and the boy fought to gain control.

On the monitors in the security area, Deputy Brad noticed the small explosions of gunfire emanating from the Roastmasters. It looked too erratic and frenzied of a firing pattern for it to be from the expert marksman Frank West. No, there must have been a new brand of trouble in Paradise.

As far as Brad was concerned, all of the cases regarding the zombies were closed… but the Minisaw mystery was still wide open. He shucked a new clip into his handgun and set off through the vent for the mall's rooftop.

In the café, Connie had managed to headbutt Kent, sending the man-boy sprawling. Unfortunately, he fell right near Dakota, who, though freed from her bonds as well, was sitting terrified near the orange juices. Especially with all the gunplay, she didn't dare move.

Kent crawled toward the little girl.

"Get AWAY from her!" cried Connie as, not thinking, she threw down Kent's handgun and picked up a perfume prop that Frank must have left behind while untying the ladies. _Wait, though…_thought the woman for a second, _this was there before…_

At any rate, Connie dashed up to Kent (as much as she could dash, with her build), and slammed him in the back of the knee with the prop.

"AGH!" he yelped, staggering out of the way.

"Freeze!" Brad yelled, swaggering into the way.

Kent dove for his gun.

As Connie collected up Dakota and started towards the back entrance of Colombian Roastmasters, Kent and Brad engaged in a good old fashioned Food-Court-esque shootout.

"We have your Halls, Kent…just give up and surrender!" grunted Brad as he took a shot at the boy from five feet away.

"Ack…you'll have to do better than that to get me, old man!" spat Kent, as a bullet grazed the brown grassland of his scalp. The kid fired at the deputy, striking a pillar far away instead of his intended target.

In the butcher shop, Gordon clung to the transceiver, unable to believe what he was hearing. Gunshots, fighting, the woman he loved, her daughter…he couldn't help but resume his sobbing habit. "Sob," he sobbed, to start it off.

At the café, Kent managed to grab a blender from behind the counter and throw it at Brad. Fortunately for the man-boy, his aim with objects was better than that with bullets, as the appliance struck home against Brad's oblong head. Kent took this opportunity to rush out the back of the place limpingly, his one knee injured from the prop blow. "Mrs. Hall?" he asked to the open undead air. "Da-ko-taaaaa?" he followed up, annoyingly drawing out the last syllable of the girl's name.

"WHAT are we…BZZZZZAAAAAGH!"

"Stalworth!" cried Adam as he watched his cellmate first complain, then scream in agony as he appeared to be electrocuted.

Gordon reeled around as the built-in stun-gun charge n his chain went off. Then he lay still.

"Stalworth!" cried Adam again, this time in his high-pitched performance voice.

First it was a slow, laggy foot chase through Leisure Park for like five minutes. Nothing too eventful.

But then, near the Tunnels' entrance, Kent jumped on a motorcycle and Brad into a red convertible, the latter giving chase to the former. Each of the two bumped past the exit toll booth as they set through teeming hordes of zombies to the maintenance area below.

"Stalworth! Get up! Please!" cried Adam a third time as he watched the prone proctologist fail to respond.

The clown instinctively felt for something inside his suit. He couldn't believe it; they were still there, after all this time.

He took out a couple of daggers, (which Minisaw knew could never cut through his captives' chains anyway), and started to toss.

"OUCH!" piped the doctor as one of them hit him in his area of expertise. He started to his knees.

"Thank God!" said Adam, "I thought you were dead!"

"I…I was tased…through this chain…" Gordon stammered.

At that precise moment, as the doctor registered this last bit of damage from his tormentor, he found himself leveling up into a new tier of insanity.

If he were a (pretty and skinny) female survivor, he might have been content with just interjecting, "I've had it!"

But this was Gordon Stalworth we were talking about.

Well, not the same Gordon Stalworth. Not anymore.

"MY…BELLY…IS…NOT…"

Now it was Adam's turn to cower in the corner.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUULLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!"

Gordon was just about to make for the miniature chainsaw near him, when suddenly the transceiver, now feet away from his reach thanks to a spasm during his electrocution, went off once more.

"Ahhhhhhahhhhhhahhhhh!" the frantic physician howled, spinning onto aforesaid belly to try and retrieve the transceiver.

His frenzied efforts, however, were to no avail.

Kent whipped around a corner of the tunnels with Brad just behind him, a community of creatures biting the dust all around them. The man-boy never saw the truck with slashed tires before him, as his head was turned at the moment to taunt the pursuing deputy.

SLAMMM

The kid's body rotated several times through space as he flew off the bike.

Unable to stop in time as well, Brad slammed his car into the wall just meters away.

As each groggily got up, he became surrounded by a small group of zombies.

They both cursed at the same time.

"Ohhhhohhhhohhh," mourned Gordon, uncertain of what became of his lover and her child but fearing the worst. The physician could do no more than continue to prostrate himself on the grimy floor, bawling his eyes out.

"Stalworth, get a hold of yourself!" shrieked Adam, doing his best to drown out Gordon's moans. "There's got to be a way to solve this scoop…there's got to be! CALM DOWN!"

Now you know when a nutcase clown tells you to take it easy, you've really lost it.

"I can't be calm!" Gordon protested, "my Connie needs me! My Dacky NEEDS ME!" He pulled at his arm chain ferociously. "Agh, Agh, AAAAAGGGGHHH! AAAAAAGGGGGHHHH!!"

Adam stood there helplessly, trying not to lose it himself…but also, strangely, a small minority of his mind tried his best not to bust out laughing. Though the proctologist was in agony…

"AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHH!"

…he seemed to be hamming it up a bit much.

Outside the butcher's lair, the horrifying bellows of Dr. Gordon Stalworth began to fall upon the undead ears of several creatures nearby who had not heretofore taken note of the presence of doctor or jester. At the sound of human cries, several zombies, including some of those surrounding Kent and Brad, shifted their attention towards the double doors opposite the Michelle Club trucks.

One creature in particular took things literally a step further by breaking through the barrier between tunnel and chamber, bursting through the doors that were propped open slightly by the broken miniature chainsaw Adam had thrown over an hour ago.

Adam craned his neck to the left, and even Gordon ceased his raving for a second, as each man looked upon their new visitor. Had Minisaw planned for this to happen too?

They watched as the ambulatory corpse shambled towards them, gripping a disembodied forearm in its decaying paws. The monster wielded the limb flamboyantly, as if it were trying to show off a trophy it had won for "grisliest cannibalistic conquest" or something along those lines.

As the thing proceeded to approach the still living pair on the floor of the lair, it bumped forcibly past the phony slab of meat containing the camera. The faux meat was dislodged from its hook by the impact and slammed to the ground.

Gordon suddenly got the most brilliant of ideas.

Though some of the freaks all around Kent and Brad were distracted by Gordon's yells, many were still bordering the man and the boy such that escape was damn near impossible.

At least escape on the ground was.

There was only one thing left for the two to do: another chase, but this time not on the asphalt of the maintenance tunnels but rather on the fleshy terrain of good old Zombie Road.

Kent hopped upon the shoulders of a hefty middle-aged woman zombie, then crouched down to spring onto the top of another member of the undead just nearby. Brad followed suit, doing his best to balance himself, then step across to another deceased invader, staying just literally a head or two away from his quarry. The precarious perches of monster scalps and lapels prevented either participant in the chase from aiming his pistol at the other. It was all each could do to just put one foot in front of the other.

"When I…mmf…catch up to you…mmf…you little jerkoff…ungh…you'll get what's comin' to you…" swore Brad as a zombie beneath him made to bite upward at the agent's traipsing feet. "I'm gonna…mmf…kill you…ungh…you sick hole."

This was shouted just as Kent reached the last zombie in line to be trampled upon. The prepubescent psychopath was just about to the door to the butcher's operating area.

"Here, zombie zombie zombie zombie zombie…heeeeere zombie zombie," said Gordon to the monster before himself and Adam, trying to bait the thing into coming his way.

"Stalworth, STOP IT!" screamed Adam, alternating between his normal baritone and his abnormal entertainer inflection.

Gordon reached out, straining as much as he could, to touch the creature, grab him—a human extending out to grasp at a zombie, for once. He had to get ahold of that hunk of meat. Maybe the dismembered arm could substitute for his own...with the camera now out of whack on the butcher's floor, Minisaw would never know…

He dimly realized, though, that the sound might still be on, on the recorder, and so he began to ham it up again. "AAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!"

"Stalworth, please CALM DOWN! There's a way out of this scoop, there's a WAY OUT!"

The doctor ignored Adam as he continued to reach for the zombie, which by now was finally heading his way. The thing still held the forearm out in front of him, as if to show-and-tell to the pair of men before it.

As the beast finally stopped, a foot in front of Gordon…

"STALWORTH! NO! OH MY GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

…the doctor quickly stood up and whisked the arm out of the zombie's hands.

He had an arm now! He could go up to the camera, if it still worked! He could show Minisaw…

SHNNNK

As the pudgy proctologist was abruptly yanked back by the chain, about which he had completely forgotten in his delirium, said forearm flew right out of his hands and towards the real slabs of meat hanging down. The hunk of meat was so far away now.

The zombie who gave Gordon the hunk, however, was not.

Adam couldn't even formulate words at that point; he could only watch in horror as the intruding monster hunched down atop Gordon and began to bite at his right arm, chewing at the elbow, at the wrist, tearing off bits here and there.

"AAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!"

This time Gordon's scream was much more genuine.

By the time Brad had jumped off the last of the crowding zombies, Kent was almost at the double doors. Before the kid could slam them open, however, he was himself slammed against the wall by the deputized maintenance man. Brad chucked Kent's head against the wall once, twice, thrice. When the man-boy seemed enough out of it, Brad took a few steps back and aimed his handgun at the psycho.

"You're finished, Minisaw," he said. "I'm gonna take you back to the survivor room and then you're gonna spend the rest of your life in a prison…a real prison…not this mall hell…"

"BORRRRRING!" cried Brad's supposed captive.

Kent then suddenly sprang, executing his patented jump kick. The move caught Brad in the throat, right on the imprint of the mannequin hand that was pressed into the skin of his neck. The deputy's eyes became widened ovals of abject shock as he crumpled to the ground.

Righteously and brattily, Kent dusted himself off and continued on his way. As he faced off with about ten more zombies who had just congregated between him and the doors, Brad clutched at the putrid air around him, not fatally wounded in fact but feeling as if he were hovering near death from the devastating effects of Kent's jump kick.

"AAAAAGH—"

With seemingly the last of his strength and consciousness, Gordon grabbed his miniature chainsaw out of the corner of his eye and brought it down on the back of the neck of the zombie atop him. The undead thing's face maintained its sickly grin even though its head became detached from its torso.

Grunting, the doctor forced himself back into a sitting position to check his injuries. By some sort of semi-miracle, only his right arm—the arm that was chained up—was affected by the zombie attack, whereas the rest of his body was untouched.

The arm did get one hell of a nibbling, though.

Gordon winced as he looked upon the bloody appendage that was once a fully functioning right arm. So much skin and muscle had been chewed off of it that it looked a third of its girth. The shackle encircling it was stained with all sorts of gore.

The shackle from which, Gordon realized, he could now easily release himself.

With agonizing effort, the proctologist forced his flayed forearm out of the fetter, the thinned arm now slipping through the metal bond so smoothly, if painfully.

"AAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!"

With one more shank and shout, Gordon freed himself from that which imprisoned him. Partly out of hurt and partly out of fear, he began to crawl on his hands and knees toward the heavy machine gun lying a meter or two away.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Adam hollered apoplectically.

"Uhh, uhh, heh…" Gordon uttered. With the most effort ever he began to lift the impossibly heavy weapon up to point its business end at the clown.

"OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! STALWORTH…DON'T! DON'T!" Adam hit new heights of high notes with his pleading.

"You have to die," Gordon said hoarsely, his face drained from normal chubby cherub to sallow and almost shriveled a bit.

"NO! I WANT TO LIVE! PLEASE!"

"I'm sorry…"

"I WANT TO LIVE!"

"My family…"

"I HAVE A FAMILY TOO! SPACY CLIFF AND SPACY CL…"

BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM

Adam's descent to the butcher's floor almost resembled one of his well-practiced pratfalls, as he fell straight back onto his bottom, his curls fluffing and his red honker nose arching. But what just happened wasn't anything humorous.

"I'VE DONE IT!" exclaimed Gordon wearily and exasperatedly to the camera not far away. "REQUEST FULFILLED! NOW SHOW CONNIE AND DACKY TO MEEEEEEEEEEE!"

The physician, of course, could not be shown this through any technological advance of the be-cameraed synthetic slab of meat, but the Connie and Dakota in question had in fact just slogged through a plaza, a warehouse, and an elevator car full of creatures to get to the security area and safety. The freelance drifter who had untied them had dropped his photo of the air vent, which tipped off the mother and daughter that the duct might be a thing worth checking out.

To their delight, Connie and Dakota were rewarded for their courage and curiosity with unbridled care by the maintenance crew. Well, at least by one member of the maintenance crew.

"Yeah, sorry I can't get dipstick over here to get up off his fat, pie-eating ass," said Deputy Kelly to the woman and child, pointing to the unconscious Shinji as she gave them coffee creamer and apples. "And the clydesdale in charge, well he went off in the tunnels chasing that spaz who took you hostage. But you guys can, like, just take a pill and chill here all you want."

The female Halls breathed a deep sigh of relief. If only, now, they could see their dear Dr. Stalworth…

As Connie and Dakota passed the various survivor rooms, they looked to their right to see a linguine-haired woman with dynamic curves comforting a troubled-looking hermaphrodite with burns on his arms and legs. The he/she was wearing only a turquoise t-shirt and matching boxer shorts, and looked down at his clothing as if wishing he were wearing something else.

"It's okay, Paul," said the woman, "what matters is that you're alive."

"But, Mindy, I look so emo like this!" protested the apparent guy. "I wish I had my other threads back."

"Well, you know what we had to do to get out…" said Mindy.

Paul nodded heavily. He'd had a special bond with the woman since he'd actually saved her life with help from one of his Molotov cocktails…which is a story for another time. Because of the psychic rapport they shared, though, Mindy knew exactly where to find Paul when he was in the maintenance storage conflagration. She broke in with a fire extinguisher and put out as much as she could, but Paul still had to get rid of all his clothes, and still suffered burns all over his limbs. Like a newsy ne'er-do-well transporting a saucy Santa Cabezan or an injured customer at Run Like the Wind, Mindy propped the nude Paul on her back and carried him to the security area all on her own. Everyone averted their eyes to avoid blindness when they saw the unclothed boy limping in, which bought his companion time to rifle through nearby cardboard boxes for clothes. The emo gear was the only thing Paul's size.

Kelly suggested that she might be able to get the guy some Jams to wear instead, but he gently turned her down.

Connie and Dakota looked to their left and saw a young man with a yellow t-shirt being comforted by a grungy-looking guy wearing a loud sort-of-Hawaiian shirt.

"Th-thank you, Burt," said the yellow-shirted youngster. "I probably wouldn't have gotten out of there on my own…"

"Ahh, it's nothin'," said the other man, "We Fusers have to stick together…I'm sure you'd do the same for me."

At the mentioning of their baseball team, Mark smiled, for the first time in almost 72 hours. Like Mindy and Paul, Mark and Burt also had a special bond, formed through their involvement with the intramural ball club. The two were close buddies; Burt was tighter with Mark than even Aaron Swoop—a fact which made the acne-attacked Aaron jealous with homoerotic rage.

While Mark was enmeshed in the monster party taking place at Colby's Movieland Annex, Burt set off to save him, though he didn't have a clue where his buddy was being held. Fortunately, a stray missile from a Special Forces chopper struck the entrance to the Annex in Leisure Park—another random force that Minisaw probably didn't take into his calculations—and the combination-locked door was blown open.

Burt heard Mark's screams from there, and rushed in to help his friend. Like the similarly named Bert and Mark from a generation before, this Burt and Mark were unstoppable in taking down the zombies in tandem, and soon they were back in the survivor area, relatively unscathed.

The only major threat either of them had to face now was that of Heather Tompkins possibly cracking.

"No!

"No!

"No way!"

"Heather, for the last time, would you stop doing that?!" the girl's twin Pamela said, getting up in her sister's face. "There's no big Lego man there, wanting to mate with you!"

"But, Pammy, there is…he's right there, and he's like, _this big._" The juicy Tompkins spread her arms out to emphasize the size of her tormentor.

"I'm telling you, there's no huge toy person here that's _this big_, Heather." The 69 Tompkins spread her arms similarly to counter her twin.

"Pamela, I'm telling you, he's humongous, like _this wide_ and…" the other girl again let her arms fly out.

"You know, you wish some overgrown doll would come and make love to you," said Pamela. "You're so starved for attention, you have to go and try to push people over to get them to notice you. Why don't you get a personality? And wash your hair while you're at it." The girl pointed to Heather's ratty locks, hidden partially by her tasseled hat.

"Oh, PAMELA! …No! NO! No…"

Despite Pamela's best efforts to shock her sister out of her delusions of Servbot seduction, Heather was still going at it, playing hard-to-get with the yellow goliath allegedly before her. The sane twin could do nothing but lower herself to the ground at her sibling's feet, resting from all the heated argument.

About ten seconds later, however, she lifted herself up and started the whole thing again.

"Heather, for the last time, would you stop doing that?!"

"But Pammy, he's like _this big…_"

The double doors to the butcher's processing area burst open. An angry adolescent with camera in hand strode forward, checking in on the scene. What he found was a seemingly inert entertainer in one corner and a maimed doctor in the other, crawling around with his good arm around a rather large gun. Near to him was the mangled remains of an undead enemy.

"You _bostard!_" said Gordon as he pointed his heavy machine gun at Kent, pulling the trigger but finding not bullets issuing. I'll flippin' kill you! I'll flippin' kill you, I'll flippin' kill you, I'll flippin' kill you…"

Kent looked down at the proctologist, astonished that he was still conscious, as well as by the fact that he was using such weaselly substitutes for F bombs. What the man-boy didn't know was that the doctor had an overriding subconscious paranoia, inculcated into him from youth, that a special Gestapo existed whose goal was to eradicate anyone who used the acronym For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge.

After going over to check out the body of Adam, Kent turned to Gordon again and shook his head. "That's no good, man! You're too late!"

"Wh-why…" was all Gordon could get out at this point.

The boy just shrugged, pointing his handgun at Gordon. "It's the scoops…"

"WOO-HA!"

Kent was suddenly surprised to find himself being pulled down by a force from behind. The source of said force, Adam MacIntyre, had barely managed to crawl up to the faux photographer before the latter could get a shot off.

Before Kent could regain his feet, Adam stepped over to a sausage rack within reach and hoisted it. A second later, the prepubescent brat was struck full in the face with about thirty bratwursts. Adam baseball-batted Kent with the rack a couple more times out of pure fury…but even he was shocked and horrified after a few strikes to see the boy land on the small conveyor belt going to the top of the meat processor, too weak to move.

Kent managed to shake out some cobwebs just in time to realize that his scrawny frame was headed straight into a mouth full of unstoppable mechanized teeth.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAACKAAAAAAARGHGGHGHGHGH!"

As Kent began his gruesome, gory transformation into the subject matter of a Swanson TV dinner, Gordon managed to inch over to Adam.

"You're…you're going to be all right, Adam," the doctor said faintly. "You're just wounded in the shoulder, chest, kidney, liver, thigh, and kneecap. I'm going to go get help."

"No!" protested Adam, in his squeakiest clown voice. "Don't leave me here! Stalworth, no!"

"I'm sorry, Adam…if I don't get help…I'm going to either bleed to death, or become zombified into undeath. I'll come back, I pr-pr-promise."

"You'll come back, Gordon?" pleaded the clown, a tear in his painted eye as the doctor started to crawl away, again more out of fear than agony.

"I-I wouldn't lie to you."

The proctologist positioned himself towards the double doors and began his long, impossible trek through limitless respawning zombies to get to safety.

In truth, both Gordon and the moribund Brad would eventually be rescued by none other than Otis Washington, who had a knack for somehow getting through all the monsters and pulling out nearly deceased humans. He had done the same with Frank West at Entrance Plaza around noon on the 19th.

Unfortunately, Otis wouldn't get there in time to pull out Adam.

Said Adam was left to look around his dank surroundings, unable even to search the man he thought was Minisaw for a key. It was kind of tough to root through the clothes of a person who had been processed.

Suddenly, again on the loudspeaker: "Hello, Mr. Swanson, or as they called you at Parasol: Kent."

Adam started to look up at the smudged ceiling, trying to understand what was going on. Some kind of dramatic music began playing in his head too, but he didn't know where it came from.

"I want you to make a choice. There's a slow-acting Quickstep coursing through your system, which only I have the antidote for. Will you murder the lover of a probeology graduate student and her irritating daughter to save yourself? Listen carefully, if you will. There are scoops…"

As Adam looked to a far corner of the chamber to where the voice was reporting, the supposedly dead large man between him and the gone Gordon began to move...

The clown shot his head around just in time to see the enormous butcher stirring, stretching, yawning and finally getting up onto his metallic soles. He fixed a hard, cryptic gaze on Adam for a moment. The musical number in the entertainer's head reached a crescendoing climax.

"Mmm…mmm…ahh, a customer!"

Adam's internal orchestra swirled to a disappointed halt. "What?!"

The behemoth said nothing, but looked over to the synthetic slab of meat. "This…this is no good! I can't serve my customers…mock-up meat like that! I…have a reputation to uphold!"

The large man became so upset that he stormed out of the forbidding room, the double doors flapping several times behind him.

_O-okay,_ said Adam to himself shakily…_if the man-boy's not Minisaw…and that huge guy wasn't either…then who is?!_

Suddenly a pounding issued at a green closet from the opposite corner of the shop. A second later, a man in military fatigues burst out, dusting himself off and looking around.

_This must be him,_ thought Adam.

The man strode straight toward the entertainer, whose head began to fill again with the melodramatic overture. The former's hand was filled with a wad of what appeared to be receipts.

"These automated teller machines are no use at all in this mall," muttered the man. "I'll have to switch to checks and credit."

"What are you doing here?!" blurted Adam, as the record needle playing the overture within him scratched off the turntable.

"Oh," said the man, "I was just in the middle of this cleanup operation, and decided to go grab some cash from an ATM…" He pointed to the closet from which he came. "I couldn't find any in the plazas, but managed to find one in here…kept aborting the process each time I put my debit card in, though. Yep…that's two hours of my life I'll never get back."

"You were in there for two hours?!"

"Yeah, unbelievable isn't it. I lost a lot of morale…it was no picnic."

_"Hello, Brock."_

Both Adam and the military man turned around at the sound. The voice again came over the loudspeaker…but the clown could swear that he heard it coming from somewhere else now, as well.

This Brock looked up toward the PA system output. "…Minisaw! Whassup, blood? You scared me a second!"

_"Sorry about that; my fault. I'm doing fine…and yourself?"_

"Ahh, SSDD, you know. A cleansing here, hordes of zombies and all that."

_"Okay. I just wanted to say hello."_

"Alright. I'll catch up with you soon, okay?" Brock started towards the double doors. "Talk to ya!"

_"Take care."_

As the man in fatigues padded out of the chamber, Adam looked apathetically at his clown shoes. He'd had about enough of this.

He was so uncaring at this point that he didn't notice the first vibrations of one of the freezers meters away, bumping this way and that as some…occupant made to push his way out.

He still didn't look up as a figure emerged from the freezer, his hips wobbling as he came up out of the small compartment, and then touched down on the floor.

He didn't even bother to strike up the band inside his head as the man, bearded and clad in overalls, stood there before him.

"The key to your chain is in the meat tub," was all he said.

Suddenly Adam looked up into the face of the man he was sure was Minisaw.

The man who Brad said was sick, and whom Otis called "A Sick Man" when he pointed him out to the vagabond photojournalist hours before. The man who trapped Paul, Mark, Adam, Gordon, Jeff, and Janet, and drugged the last of these so she couldn't say anything more than "KNOCK IT OFF," "I'VE HAD IT," and "OH, YOU!" while pointing to him when he still occupied the survivor room. The man who planted a perfume prop in the Colombian Roastmasters, partly out of love for his favorite store in Wonderland where he was found by Frank.

Adam vibrated thoroughly as he looked upon this sadistic would-be serial murderer. He then dove for the heavy machine gun and started to lift it.

BZZZZZZZZZ

"AAAAAOOOOOWWWWW," the clown cried as an electric shock ensued, not from his chain but from a stun gun in the madman's hand.

As the Minisaw Killer walked towards the double doors, he had the phrasing that he'd had Whiskers say to Janet in his mind for some reason.

"_Some well-endowed women are too prudish to dress provocatively. But not you. Not anymore."_

The killer reached a switch near the door. Adam bellowed as badly as he could.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

"VIDEO GAME OVER," said Minisaw, flipping off the light switch stepping out to join the parade of baldies that had already crossed the threshold out into the tunnels. As he passed a zombie here and there, he told himself he had to go meet with his lover, Wayne Blackwell, soon; when they hopefully got out of this Willamette situation, they'd have to go perfume shopping together. They both loved their fragrances so much.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO! DOOOOOOON'T! DO-HO-HO-HO-HON'T! YOU OSH KOSH B'GOSH FRE-HE-HE-HEAK!" yelled Adam, as a congregation of undead started to mill in around him. When they reached the clown, they began to tickle his ribs with their teeth, just as the teeth of his miniature chainsaws did after the battle with the vagrant photo taker.

"NOOOOOOOO! HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA! NOOOOOO HA HA HA! HEE-HEE-HEE, HA HA NOOOO HA HA HA…HAW HAW HAW…HO HO HO…"


	23. Torque's Tour Through The Park View

CHARACTERS

TORQUE'S TOUR THROUGH THE PARK VIEW

The emerald expanse that was Leisure Park lay wide open for the convict to roam freely, run at anything he wished, and destroy with whatever weapons he chose.

And indeed, a portion of the ex-prisoner did consider rushing at a few humanoids before him with a baseball bat, or with a mega-automatic weapon.

But Torque was no ordinary fool in an orange jumpsuit.

He wasn't here, at the Willamette Park View Mall, to vacation, or to idle, or even to shop.

The jail escapee was here on business: to end the nightmares and visions that constantly plagued him, ever since that horrific afternoon in Baltimore.

The sight of his sons, his wife—all slaughtered—

and not by his unbloody hands—

—was enough to snap the man known to almost everyone as Torque out of a rational manner of thought.

And then being driven into prison for the acts, when he wasn't even the one responsible…

…you could say he was more than a bit nonplussed at that.

But now he was out, via supernatural intervention as well as the natural intervention of his own strengths and resources…and after leaving a wake of obliterated apparitions in his hometown, he found, cornered, and crushed the life out of the man whom he thought was his main nemesis:

The gruesome yet generically-named Blackmore.

In the evil man's dying breaths, however, he uttered the name of another, greater evil, far baser than anything Torque could have imagined.

"…Bl…Bla…

"…_Blackwell."_

And now Torque was here, his investigation having led him to some anonymous burg in Colorado, to exact his revenge on whatever extremely vile force of humanity this "Blackwell" was.

RUMMA RUMMA RUMMA RUMMA RUMMA

Torque covered his eyes as he saw the blinding flash of blades and the roar of a great craft above him. He gathered up his own blades and guns, ready to battle…

…but then noticed it was only a civilian chopper, nothing sinister about it. Just escorting some people to safety. People like a…

…luscious blonde with bifocals looking out the window, down at him…

Had he been here before?

No, wait; that wasn't her.

That was that waste of fine flesh known only as Jordan.

She, too, was a blonde in a helicopter…but was doing more than just looking down at the man.

She was firing all kinds of artillery at him, in the hopes of wiping him from the planet.

Of course, Torque put an end to her before she could pull this off.

"Yeah, ya did good with that blonde broad."

The conflicted convict spun around at the words he knew he heard, at least in his head. He tensed, then relaxed as he saw a vision a bit more pleasant than that to which he was accustomed, with non-familial ghosts:

Horace Gage.

Horace was a convict of long late on Carnate Island, the stronghold from which Torque originally escaped, who ended his life in an electric chair at the Abbott Prison on the rock. He technically haunted the antihero a good amount of times…though, like the visions of his family that he constantly saw, it was a good haunting…or at least a less bad haunting.

"Look, buddy," said Horace, to the almost-always-silent Torque, "Ya got a lotta folks from inside who're lookin' to put hurt on ya…folks who want to take out this…Blackwell as well. I'm just here to tell ya ta watch out…you and I ain't the only convicts here."

Horace then flashed intensely with the electric aura that perpetually surrounded him and then vanished.

And then, as soon as Torque regained his bearings:

"It's _roadkill_ time!"

He looked up, then spun out of the way just as what appeared at first to be a giant jeep whirled past him.

Getting to his feet and taking out a gun or two, he looked again to the vehicle as it rushed towards a wall of the mall, then turned itself around.

No one was inside the thing.

And the grill of the humvee had almost a human face.

"You don't recognize me, Torque?!" roared the vehicle at the man standing only so many meters away. "The one who you stole trucks and jeeps with in Aspen and Boulder after you did a stint here?"

Torque said nothing—as always—but just shook his head. Not in a negative response sense…but in an unwillingness-to-believe-what-he-saw sense.

But then, he'd just about seen everything up to now.

"It's me, old Sammy!" cried the monstrous ride. "Sammy Franklin!"

The thing apparently wasn't so interested in reunions, though, as much as just taking out Torque, as it then seemingly erupted, a silver canister emitting from its top:

"Let me break out the booze…I mean, the booms…ha ha ha!"

It was all Torque could do to jump out of the way of the incoming propane tank before it landed at the place where he was just standing.

BOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM

He gathered his nerve together as he rolled, still absorbing some of the explosion as he proceeded. And the Samvee proceeded behind him as well, moving right along with its pursuit, its propane, and its platitudes.

"You might've managed to escape Carnate or whatever hole you were put in, Torquey," yelled the thing as it chased the man through various trees, "but you won't escape this!!"

Another propane tank was chucked out of the horrible human humvee as Torque ran. He jumped around a giant old bark and shielded himself as—

BOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM

He barely avoided another apocalyptic explosion, courtesy of the changed Sam Franklin.

The man then decided that he had had enough. Instinctively he shucked away his guns and took out something much more effective:

Some of the dynamite sticks that he somehow still had from Carnate.

Striking the fuse to set the explosives in motion, Torque remained behind his tree and waited a bit longer.

"I'M GONNA EXECUTE YOU MYSELF, TORQUEMADA…!"

Then just as Sam sped past his tree, Torque threw his dynamite and ran the other way.

The sticks lodged between what was once the seats as the vehicle as…

"AAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH"—BOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM

The human humvee that was Samuel Franklin was now reduced to so much vehicular rubble. The remains of Sam sparked a second later, then exploded high into the cold Coloradan afternoon sky.

Torque took a second to check himself for any serious bruising, then ran back towards the mall entrance towards which he was running after emerging into the Park from North Plaza.

"A-a-anyone?!"

He then stopped and whipped out another stick of dynamite automatically as he heard the sound. There could be any number of prisoners after him at the moment.

But then he noticed, atop a wooden awning under which were many park benches, was a Willamettan who was anything but an inmate.

No, she was a pleasant, red-haired civilian with a cute face and the funkiest, faddiest of clothing style.

Torque leapt up to catch the edge of the awning, then climbed to join the woman for a second.

"Th…thank you for destroying that terrible thing out there," she started. "My…my name's Sophie…Sophie Richards. I can't believe how that man…that scumbag, actually…changed after the clock struck noon…"

In this reality, see, the visiting heroic photojournalist didn't rescue absolutely everyone. Among those who were left behind were this pretty redhead, as well as a couple of others. However, they didn't just down and die because he didn't save them.

They fended for themselves, pretty decently at least.

So Sophie was still there, even after Frank West was done with his duty.

And apparently others as well…

…including this…

_…Blackwell._

And when the clock tower read twelve on this day, all of a sudden Sam Franklin alone reemerged in the Park…

…but he respawned as the hellspawn humvee that Torque encountered.

"I've been up here for the past two days, coming down only to gather and eat snacks," Sophie bleated. "Those foul freaks had been plaguing me with their jeep for a hundred hours it seems now…but then only the one came back, and attacked _as_ the jeep, in some way…"

Sophie lost it at this point and started sobbing profusely. Torque took it upon himself to embrace the lady out of sympathy.

"Sob oh Sid…Siddd…sob sob"

The convict said nothing, of course…but just put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"Th-thank you," said Sophie. "You look like the sort who can take out the other two…I actually saw them somehow…spirited away in _that_ direction…and _that_ direction."

Torque took out a map of the mall that he scrapped up amidst so many prone…ghouls, it seemed. For some reason, all of the undead that had mobbed the Park View had collapsed by this point, and were no longer threatening.

Which was okay, because Torque had much more capital matters to deal with at this point.

"It's there, at Entrance, it seemed the one guy was going…" Sophie indicated, pointing to that area on the map, "and then the…the # that killed Sid…I mean…I'm sorry, sir…the other went towards Al Fresca, it looked like."

Torque nodded thanks and hugged the woman again. He then leaned in close and whispered to her that he had a ride out of there, and that she should set off towards the Maintenance Tunnel Parking Lot to find it.

Sophie hugged him hard at this, and with the man's help in getting down from her elevated hiding place, started sprinting off towards safety.

And then, as Torque ran off for what appeared on the map to be the entrance to Paradise Plaza from Leisure Park:

"Dah…Daddy!"

He turned and shook his head, seeing the vision of his younger son, Malcolm, just before the sought-after entrance.

He was still holding the rubber ducky from the bathtub in which he as drowned.

"Daddy…you did good, Daddy! I miss you and love you! My Daddy!"

Just as the man ran to the doors to embrace what he knew was a ghost anyway, the vision vanished.

Nothing eventful, really, occurred as Torque worked his way through the remains of many raucous creatures in Paradise Plaza. When he reached Entrance, on the other hand, he found a lot that he would have to deal with.

Things started slowly at first. He noticed no one in the plaza to begin with, save for a single man scurrying away with what appeared to be a lot of hardware on his person. Torque thought that he was…Hispanic of some sort, though he couldn't figure the exact origin, he couldn't see him clearly. The man appeared to have a machinegun or rifle in his hands, and grenades hanging from his belt.

Again, in this reality, the journalist didn't do his job as thoroughly as some might have liked…and he never did catch the culprit behind the wild workings afoot at Willamette.

And now said culprit was making good his escape…and he hoped to meet up outside with his sister, who was also never caught.

A mean Latino with a machinegun…it brought back memories of that good old guard Ernesto.

The courageous CO who helped Torque progress past some difficult points right around the lighthouse area of Carnate Island. Ernesto despised the convict at first…but then found a way to work with him, and neither betrayed the other.

"Yes, Torque…Ernesto knew how to play the game, didn't he."

Torque twisted around to find the hateful spirit of Blackmore just behind him.

"He knew how to play the game…the game you wanted him to play. Your game."

Torque gritted his teeth…not really so much because he detested Blackmore for supposedly ordering the murder of his family…but because he couldn't finish a single goddamn sentence without putting the word "game" in it.

"And now you're gonna have to survive the game set in motion by another of your ilk. A game of cat and mouse. A game of hide and seek. Are you game to game the system of the game that…"

SPASSSSSHHHHH

Torque covered his eyes just in time as the flashbang grenade he set off to dispel the gamy ghost had gone off. He only had so many, but they usually worked well to get rid of unwanted spirits…sometimes.

"I'M A TAKE YOU DOWN, T-BONE!"

The antihero looked up just in time to see his next terrifying target, just as the latter shot at the former with automatic weapons…

…not _in_ his arms, but which _were_ his arms.

"IT'S ME, T-BIRD!" yelled the ex-inmate above between bursts of gunfire that Torque did all he could to dodge, "your old pal Reggie Jenkins! You remember, from Charm City, _you_ know!!"

Torque hid behind a couple of tall supports in the plaza as he considered which weapon to take down the man monster that was on the second floor here. Yes, he did recall times with Reginald Jenkins, back in Baltimore…going around wrecking crap, a lot of malicious destruction committed. They did a stretch or two together at Eastern State for it…not Carnate.

He decided he'd had to go all out to get at his old friend…and his new enemy, for some reason he couldn't really comprehend. But none of this was really comprehensible anyway, to anyone sane.

He took out his M-60, which he hid inside his pants with everything else. Like several game characters.

And then he turned from his safe place and fired up at Reginald.

Most of his shots hit home, shredding into Reggie's midsection just between the giant heavy machine guns that Torque couldn't believe were the convict's actual arms. But he had seen far worse in his times at Carnate and Baltimore. Far worse.

"T-BALL…I'MA RUN YOU INTO THE GROUND, BABY…!"

Reginald fired back as furiously as he could, sending several shots right into his target. But Torque wouldn't go down.

It was a war of attrition of hundreds of bullets a minute coming from both sides…

…and eventually, it was the evil in orange, and not the one in wife-beaters, who went down.

Well-bloodied and exhausted, Torque gathered himself on the floor of Entrance to rest a second. He pulled out a small bottle of what appeared to be medication and popped all of its contents readily. Nothing like a healthy dose of Xombium to ease the discomfort, and heal all wounds.

Whereas Willamettans could cure anything that ailed them with a cup of coffee creamer, Baltimoreans just preferred meds to do the trick. And unlike the Zombie of Colorado, the Xombium of Maryland didn't harm one's system…but healed it.

And even now, as Torque lay there, the pills went to work, popping each of the bullets inside him out from his body, and closing, disengaging him from the gunshots he endured.

"Oh, huh huh huh huh huh…"

He thought he heard another human voice…so when he felt completely prepared, Torque jumped up an escalator and ran to the perfume store from which he thought he heard the sound.

What appeared before him was a pulsating mass of pudge, dolled up in a baseball shirt of some sort…

…but Torque could tell instantly that this was his target.

The devilish…the diabolical…

…Blackwell.

Torque took out his M-60 again and aimed it straight at the man's face.

"WAIT!"

Something within the convict made him stop, and so he did, putting up his weapon a second.

"I…I don't know who you are…but you saved my life a moment ago," blubbered the blubbery ball before Torque. "Please…I don't understand why you're trying to hurt me."

After this, Torque finally spoke. "You're the one, aren't you."

The other man, or really excuse for a man, just looked at him.

"The one known as…Blackwell."

"I…I…I…I'm Wayne Blackwell, yes…but…but but but I'm not guilty of anything! I'm just a warden at the local prison, it's nothing big…"

Torque then looked to the sky and sighed inwardly. He couldn't believe it. Even after dying, Blackmore was still playing his games with the man. Of course that bastard murdered his family, or at least ordered them murdered.

Of course Blackmore was responsible.

All this was a manner through which he could just confront some old allies…and now new foes…and possibly get rubbed out, just as Blackmore…or someone…wanted.

All this was just some sort of contrived revenge, a way for Torque to turn from his family in Baltimore…or what was left of it, anyway.

Although, as Torque would soon discover, maybe the entirety of his remaining relatives were not all in Baltimore after all.

Maybe there was an extra member he hadn't accounted for, not states or nations apart…

…but only a Plaza away.

Although this "Wayne Blackwell" might have been a prison warden—and indeed he was, the controlling yet cowardly warden of Willamette Correctional, who had the job handed down to him from his own father of the same name, without much training involved with the transfer—he wasn't Torque's ultimate target.

With a forceful shove Torque pushed the man to the ground in frustration.

But then thinking of his good side…and the nagging of certain family members for doing wrong things…he helped Wayne to his feet, and dusted him off.

Torque then told the survivor of his means out of the mall, just as he had with the redhead before…and Wayne thanked him, tried to hug him but was shaken off, and scurried out of Entrance Plaza.

Torque knew damn well where to go next. There was still unfinished business here.

Just before he reached the doors to Al Fresca…

"You did pretty good back there, Dad."

He turned and his head rocked from the vision. It was Cory this time.

His older son.

"Part of me bites my tongue as I say this…but I admit it. You did good," said the vision. "You weren't always there for me and Mom and Malcolm and all…but when you were there, it counted. Always know that, Dad."

Torque looked to the ground. He wasn't very good at this…family things…especially with supernatural spirits that represented them.

"I…I guess I love you, Dad. I'm not good at sayin' that. And maybe it's too late. But I'm sayin' it now."

Torque reached for his son, as he did with the one before…but then the image disappeared once more.

He pushed through to the ordinary outdoor pleasantry that was Al Fresca Plaza…now made a mockery of mankind by hordes of corpses covering its grounds.

As the man pressed along, he took out no gun or explosive, but rather his trusty shiv knife, the one from all the way back at the beginning of this nightmare—his first weapon used against the evils of the island.

Torque wanted to make sure this last battle would be close and personal.

CLUP CLUP CLUP CLUP CLUP

He looked above and noticed a woman making off…seemingly Hispanic like the one before in Entrance. She wore this chintzy combination consisting of a frilly white shirt and black pants that highlighted her ass pretty well.

She was alright.

But she was no Consuela.

No. God. When Ernesto had spoken of his wife back on Carnate, Torque had never imagined that she would have been the full-figured fantasy that was Consuela, whom he met in Baltimore under…less than peaceful circumstances. That chica was much more cheesecake than the lady whom Torque now noticed running away on the roofs of Al Fresca…and smart, and knew how to use an automatic weapon. And drive a boat, as Torque had helped her so escape to try and find Ernesto.

And her accent…as sexy as the rooftop runner might have been in pronouncing her brother's name, it was nothing compared to the way Consuela could trill out "Carrrrrrrrrrrrnate."

But Torque couldn't think about that now.

He had other things to consider. Getting to the last of the three terrors he had to face here in Willamette. Possibly rescuing at least one more person, and then making off himself in escape. Then…

"Torque!"

He looked over once more, to yet another ghost, this time illuminated by the faux torches in the outside plaza.

No. Not this one. Not…

Killjoy.

Again.

"Torque! How delightful for our persons to cross paths once again! It has been an age, far too long of an age for you and I."

The man slapped his hand to his forehead as he struggled not to listen. He could listen to Blackmore rap about "games" for 543756355347657856475843 years and be less aggravated than he would at one more word from this insidious doctor whom he'd had to endure from early on in his escape from Carnate Island.

Still, he opened his ears, because oftentimes what Dr. Killjoy had to say had important, though he would never admit it.

"Torque. I commend you for taking time out of your busy schedule of murdering and committing other heinous offenses to…take time off, indulge in a bit of…vacation, as it were," Killjoy proceeded, with his usual pretentious tone. "Although I would warn you that you are now about to encounter a most, would you say…untoward sort of fellow. An individual whom you don't know, on an acquaintance basis as you had with Mr. Franklin or Mr….Jenkins, but whom you have still met before."

Torque stood as stone, saying nothing, just watching and hearing.

"Yes, I believe this individual shall, in good time, reveal to you who he is actually…I could tell you myself, but it is most preferable if I have the actual source inform you as to who he is.

"And also, you should be aware, it would be optimal for you to prevail in this instance most especially, since there is a rather…tender life at stake here. Someone who is bound to you not by any ordinary binding ties…but by blood. So, do be cautious as you continue."

Torque could bear no more as he pushed past the ghost of Killjoy and jogged along to the other end of Al Fresca.

Where the aforementioned enemy slammed down from another roof, waiting for him.

"Ay, esse…" started the last of the three convicts, as he faced Torque with a human head and torso…and little else in terms of flesh. "You better be in the mood to make me bleed…

"'cause I'm gonna finish what I started with your family back in Baltimore."

The antihero had no idea who this person was…he'd never seen his face before.

And he knew he'd never witnessed someone who used to be humanoid, but now was a head, a hunk of midsection…with all four of his limbs replaced with excavators.

But, as Torque looked closer, pulling out a metal pipe strapped to his back to do battle…

He recognized who the man was, through his eyes.

They were the same eyes behind the black mask…

…the mask of one of the men who invaded his home and murdered his Malcolm, his Cory, his…

…Carmen.

"YEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" yelled Torque, uncharacteristically, as he charged the one with excavators for arms and legs… who was not unlike the common enemies of Carnate and Baltimore who had blades for appendages.

He was just infinitely more dangerous and deadly.

Torque's metal pipe did some damage to the man's body, impacting here and there and causing some small contusions…

But he knew it wouldn't be enough.

He'd have to have it come out.

The Beast.

Which he never wanted to happen again…but there was no other option.

As the monstrified enemy drove at Torque with all excavators lunging, missing his shoulder by an inch, then his heart by a centimeter, then his face by a breath…Torque threw down his pipe and started to have his own monster surge from within.

The tools of his enemy, whose name Torque would never know—though it was really Miguel Sanchez—kept working as they cut out at him from all angles, one finally scoring him in the thigh, another in his side.

"AAAAARRRRRAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!"

At last he could take it no more.

With the most superhuman of strength Torque shook his convict opponent away, then dropped to the ground and let the change come.

"GGGGGGGRRRRRRROOOOOOAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGG!!"

What the tetra-excavator that was Miguel now faced was no ordinary looking, mutton-chopped man…but rather a fully formed, all out musclebound beast.

Miguel tried to strike with his weapons again, but the beast just knocked them aside with the quasi-blades that were its own arms. It then struck in response to the attack upon it with no reservation whatever, slicing in with its natural knives and transforming his enemy one more time into several disconnected portions of flesh, bone, and broken tools for limbs.

When the beast sensed that its role had been fulfilled, it grabbed its head, bellowed brashly again, and diminished back…

…to the man that was Torque.

The man did all he could to collect himself at this point, the wear and tear from the three battles doing much to him constitution. He was a bit tired of this supernatural slaughter by now.

Torque picked up the pipe he cherished from the ground and pushed on, looking for the one he had left to save.

"Like…help! HELP!"

Deep in a corner at the end of Al Fresca was a young woman, her hair bedraggled, her clothes hopelessly aged a couple of decades. Torque wasted no time in freeing her from cords that were wrapped about her person.

"Damn, skippy!" cried the girl as she got to her feet shakily. "Who was that monster you just mashed with and melvined? He was really pretty ooglay if you know what I mean."

He stared at the girl, trying to think…then he realized who it might be,

"You're Kelly," Torque said, knowing now. "Kelly Carpenter. You're John and Karen's kid, aren't you?"

"No guff!" the girl replied, shrugging in a "shyeah" kind of way. Sure enough, this was the daughter of that famous pairing from long ago. Having been an orphan just like the antihero, and having grown up in a group home just like him as well, Kelly had no one to turn to…and the trauma of finding out that her father was a director of effed-up horror sci-fi films, and that her mother was the anorexic vocalist of so many soothing yet smarmy songs of the seventies, had plunged her ever more into despair.

So she searched and searched, and found a way out…

…constant denial and living in a past in which she never really consciously existed when it was around…

…the 1980s.

And Torque had learned of her plight, while he was researching the Blackwell matter…learned of her existence.

This indeed was the ulterior motive he had for coming to Willamette.

But what he didn't know was that he was near to…and had even seen, this evening…other relatives as well.

"The name's Tory Keyes," said the convict, extending a hand to Kelly. "But everyone usually calls me Torque."

"Torque! Oh my God! That sounds, like, so mint!" said the survivor.

"Come on, Kelly," he said. "We need to make our way out of here. I know the way; let's go."

The girl nodded, a bit shaken but still strong enough to keep going. As her savior, who was thought to be mulatto but was really a mixture of black, white, and Santa Cabezan—mostly that last one—had reached the doors to the Food Court, he heard another familiar voice, and turned his head to see its owner.

It was her, indeed. Carmen.

"Oh, T," she started, crying a bit. "You never fail when it comes to doing what's best. Know always that I love you, and that I'll always be with you."

Torque would have cried a bit himself at seeing and hearing this…if he were that kind of guy.

"Take care of her, T. Your family," she said, meaning Kelly. "She's a wonderful girl…even if her language is a bit out of synch."

The man nodded, waved heartfully to his love, then continued through the doors to the next area of the mall. He knew Sophie and Wayne were waiting and anxious to leave as well. As Torque made his way out of the mall with Kelly, he hoped in the back of his mind that he wouldn't face more ghosts back home.

Killjoy about doing what is "preferable" and "most beneficial" for his sake.

Blackmore about…well, you know.

And Carmen, nagging him from the other side as always, about anything from not committing future crimes to completing his group home chores.


	24. Jo And Super Joe

CHARACTERS

JO AND SUPER JOE

There was no way of telling, in the darkened empty store-to-be, whether it was morning or still evening. Tad gathered up his clothing and ventured to take a peek outside.

SSSHHHBAAAAAMMMMM

Instantly the survivor was rocked off his feet by some kind of explosion going on, beyond the thin double doors that served to separate him and his newfound love from the rest of the universe.

Said explosion had awoken said love as well, and she also gathered her stuff as she rose.

"Tad, what was that out there?"

"I'm not entirely sure, Kay. It might just be best for us to stay in here a bit longer till it tides over…"

But Tad knew that, sooner or sooner, he had to face it. There was no time for later.

The two of them stole away to the empty room in North Plaza—the same one in which the storied photojournalist awaited a sexy Santa Cabezan chick—after they seemed to connect on so many levels in their respective survivor room. He was a harried, hot and bothered hostage of an abusive psychopath…and so was she, it turned out.

They had so much in common…the most kindred of survivor spirits.

And so, Tad had told Kay, he knew of a secret place in the Park View—a place he had scoped out long before any of these undead evils had come along. And would she like to go and check it out with him?

This all occurred the evening before they were all to escape the horrors they all witnessed, and of which they were a part. But the past several hours of the overall nightmare had been nothing but dream as Tad and Kay bonded in more ways than one, in the intimate privacy of the tiny getaway they made out in North Plaza.

But now, even that haven was being hollowed out by outside interference. They could hide and confide no more. It was time for them to act.

After a few more anxious moments, in which Tad fit his cap back onto his head and Kay slipped into her semi-shorts and fixed her tousled hair, the pair set out to open the doors to their hideaway…

…only to be almost smacked onto the ground by them a second later, as another being forced them open from without.

"Uggh!" cried Tad as he hit the ground alongside his love. "What could…?"

It couldn't be one of those undead creatures, now could it? Zombies weren't able to open doors…as far as he knew.

"You're…Tad, Tad Hawthorne…am I correct?"

Tad and Kay looked up to see a man dressed all in black, with a gas mask sort of covering over his face, and an automatic rifle in hand. The weapon looked custom made, something other than what passed for an ordinary machinegun.

Whatever it was, though…it as pointed straight at the two survivors.

Tad paused for several seconds, wondering what to do, wondering if this were the end, if his wonderful hours with Kay were the calm to the storm of his own demise. Then, finally:

"Y…yes…"

"Okay, then." The soldier looked hard at the two for a second through his mask.

He then put up his rifle and extended a hand towards Tad.

"My name's Joe Hawthorne, Special Forces…I'm your uncle. Your Mom and Dad might have spoken of me a couple of times."

"You're…you're Super Joe?" the young man asked, now wading in a whirlpool of complete bewilderment. He had heard of some stories by his parents of how his father had some brother that was a great war hero, and had destroyed an enemy army singlehandedly back in the 1980s…but he was certain this was just some family-invented fairy tale.

"Yes, Tad. I've been waiting to meet you for a long time. We haven't got all afternoon to talk now, but I came here to find you and give you something."

"Wait…wait a minute," cut in Kay, giving the gaily-named Super Joe a sharp glance. "You said 'afternoon'?"

"Yes…it's like 1:00 right now," said Super Joe.

Tad and Kay looked at one another in abject fright.

That chopper was supposed to arrive an hour ago!

"Taddy, we missed…we missed…" Kay started, tears forming in the tough girl's eyes. Ordinarily she wasn't the kind to cry, but rather to brawl and bust some heads, as others found on the way back from Lovely Fashion House in Wonderland Plaza. But now it appeared that she was losing it like your average ordinary survivor.

"It's…it's alright, hon," said Tad, comforting his lover with a strong, tight hug. "We're gonna get out of this any way we can."

"Of course," agreed Super Joe. "There's no way I'm letting any nephew of mine get lost around here."

Although the Special Forces were known to clean out all creatures, human and inhuman alike, Super Joe would make sure that these two, at least, would be unharmed. Besides, he had a something important to hand down to Tad…the boy had a destiny to fulfill.

"I wanted to give you this, Tad," he said, handing over a small flask.

"What is it?" the young man said, inspecting the little container that looked like something a hobo (such as the heroic photojournalist) would use to hold booze. "Some kind of alcohol?"

"It's a specialized beverage made by people very near and dear to me," replied Super Joe. "It's called the Bionic Tonic."

"What does it do?"

"It will enhance your bodily functions so that you will gain considerable superhuman abilities. Specifically, your left limb will grow certain…protruberances that will enable you to grasp objects and swing them…or yourself…around."

"That sounds kind of neat," Tad said.

Kay looked at him like he was nuts.

But, before she could say anything: "It'll help you and your lady escape," Super Joe volunteered. "I can assist you only so much…you'll have to pull some of the necessary weight yourself as well."

Tad looked long at his long lost relative…then shrugged and started to lift the flask to his lips.

"Wait, Taddy," Kay interrupted, grabbing his drinking hand. "We don't know…you don't know if that drink's for real," she said, pointing to the container, then to Super Joe, "and if that's even your uncle. What if this is all a trick?"

"A trick? Kay-O, I think if this guy wanted to kill us, he would have used a bit more direct means…" Tad thumbed to Super Joe's rifle. "I don't think, especially amidst all the monster mess we have around here, there would be an elaborate plan for him to poison me."

"Look…Tad…you just do what you feel is right," said Super Joe, pulling a bloody machete from a strap attached to his back as he spoke. "I almost forgot…"

"AAAAAGH!" screamed Kay, "Get that away from us!"

Joe suddenly realized the inherent threat connected with pointing a huge, gory knife—especially one that he took off an equally gory corpse in Crislip's—and rectified the situation as best he could. "No no no no no," he said, flipping the machete over so the blade handle was pointing to the girl, "I…I wasn't trying to do anything stupid. You just look the sort that can handle something like this…so I wanted to give you this in addition…"

Kay looked down in an attempt to compose herself, then accepted the weapon from Super Joe. "Th-thank you, sir," she said.

"Alright. Well. I have to get back to my fellow soldiers. But…when I see you on the outside, Tad…we will catch up at that point. And believe you me, we have a lot of that forthcoming."

"Sure thing, Uncle," the young man said. "Take care for now."

"Right. I will be close by, do not worry."

And with that, Super Joe slipped away from the surviving pair.

Kay stretched a second, showing even more of her irresistible midriff, then spoke. "Tad, well…what do we do now?"

"We do what Joe says."

"Which is…?"

"Well, it starts with this." And with that, Tad lifted the flask again and took a hearty sip of the Bionic Tonic.

When he put the flask down at first, nothing happened. "Hmm. I pretty much feel the same," he told Kay. "Maybe it has a delayed effect. …Well, maybe we should just try to gather weapons and supplies for now."

"Yes, I agree," his lover said.

"How about the nail gun over there—" Tad said, pointing with his left arm to the tool cum weapon, trying to look over the extra meat that just appeared on his appendage...

…extra meat?

"Wh…WHAT IS THAT?!" cried Kay, backing away from Tad in a bit of a panic as she looked at the growth that had just appeared on his arm. The equally horrified Hawthorne stared down at his arm…his changed arm. There were some kind of orange cylindrical objects all over it, which looked…and even smelled…sort of like…

"Are those…hot dogs?" Kay asked, getting a bit closer.

Tad shook his head as he looked down and asked himself the same question. Suddenly he had the urge to reach out and grab something…with that new arm.

As if the thought were communicated telepathically to the limb, it instantly shot out, sending a linked stream of the cylinders out to a two by four lying on the ground nearby…and picking it up effortlessly.

"Whh…whoa," said Tad, as his new arm wrung the wood between various cylinders, which were now coiled tightly around the item.

In the ensuing minutes, he then used the arm to grasp the aforementioned nail gun, grip the cardboard box in the middle of the room…and goose Kay right on one of her exposed nether cheeks.

"HEY!" she blurted, fixing an irate look on her new lover.

"Come on, beautiful," said Tad. "You know it was good for you too."

A sly grin played on the woman's face. He was definitely a keeper.

"Let's get the heck out of dodge," she said.

In the moments that followed, Tad tried out all sorts of maneuvers with his new arm, while Kay marveled at his new abilities alongside him. He proved to be a quick study not only in grabbing objects with the hot dogs, but also in hitching them to poles, beams, and scaffolds and swinging around with them as well. Kay was amazed and admittedly aroused, and couldn't wait to get her new hero home to see what else they could do with his new endowments.

Fortunately, the Special Forces had cleaned out almost all the monsters in North Plaza and really the mall at large, so the undead were no longer really a problem. But as Tad swung from scaffold to scaffold around the left side of North Plaza, clinging to the voluptuous handful of Kay with his other arm, he could swear he heard some kind of human voice…or two.

One which was female for sure, and one which….kind of resembled that of the fairer sex.

"NO! STOP! DON'T HURT ME! HELLLLLLP!"

"Quiet down, you little bimbo! Or I'll stick this stick so far up your narrow ass…!"

Tad didn't know who on earth this could be…

…but Kay was fully aware.

It was the same voice she heard throughout even the past night of pleasure, the same face she saw beside Tad all that time in the small empty store.

The monster who, in a sense, hooked her up with her new love, insofar as the survivors could share their tales of woe and abuse.

The monster who found her "guilty" and had judged her, not with a gavel…

…but with a nightstick.

"No…it's Jo…it's Jo…" Kay moaned as Tad continued to swing along, getting closer to the voices.

"Joe? My uncle?" said her man as he moved along. "I thought we wouldn't see him again for another…"

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" said Kay, as she beheld the behemoth once again, as soon as she and Tad rounded another corner.

It was her.

Officer Jo Slade.

Somehow still alive.

And with another from the survivor room which Tad and Kay occupied, the one with the slinky red dress…

"Alyssa…I can't believe it!" Tad said as he came to rest atop a scaffold and put down Kay. He instinctively brought a hot dog to his mouth for a second from his left arm…then moved it away and covered his maw with his right hand.

"No…no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO!!" cried Kay at his side.

This, of course, caught the attention of both Alyssa and her abductor from afar, even though they were meters away in the jumble of construction that stood outside of Seon's. Jo stood over a tied-up Alyssa with nightstick in hand, ready to administer her own brand of justice all over again.

"That butch bitch…I'll KILL HER!!"

"Kay, WAIT!" yelled Tad, grabbing her bare arm with his bionic arm. "We need a plan. That…house of a human looks like she may be more than a match for both of us."

Kay glared at Tad…then nodded reluctantly. "Alright," she said, "I've got an idea."

"HEY, JUMPIN' JO-SO-FAT!" hollered Tad as he started to swing across some more scaffolds to get to his target. "TURN YOUR OBESE ASS AROUND!"

As the abomination of an officer indeed took her attention away from the almightily attractive Alyssa to gaze upon the literally hotdogging Tad as he slung his way onto her scene, Kay paced by on the ground, thankfully unnoticed. She made for Ripper's Blades as her lover continued on.

"GET AWAY FROM HER RIGHT NOW," Tad continued to bellow, stopping to brandish his bionics a second, "OR I'LL FEED YOUR FAT ASS LIKE YOU'VE NEVER BEEN FED BEFORE!!"

"You come down here and try, you skinny strip of crap!" Jo yelled back, fearless.

"Aaaaaraaagh!" Tad couldn't take being pushed around and put down anymore. He'd had enough of being bullied all his life. And now it was time to push back.

Or pull back, as it were, as Tad shot his hot dogs out at Jo's stout ankles, wrapping around them (eventually) and then yanking hard. The giantess peeped in shock as she was forced off her feet and onto her back.

"Here! Tad!"

The man then looked to his left as Kay emerged from Ripper's with a katana in one hand and a regular sword in the other. She kept the former and threw the latter to her man, then charged at Jo with every intent to cut her open.

"Kay, NO!"

His dogs pulled out from Jo to block his mistress from approaching the leviathan; he didn't want her hurt in any way.

"Tad…" she said, gritting her teeth and flashing the meanest look upon being so blocked, "get the fk away.

"Aaaaaagh!"

"KAY!"

It was Tad's turn to charge with blade bared after he watched Jo shock his woman in the leg with her stun gun. Kay fell to the ground, shaking and convulsing as she took in several violent volts of law enforcement energy.

"I'll chop you into chubby pieces, you overweight whore!" he yelled, running at Jo, who was still on the ground, and using his sword to slash at the world of a woman.

He slashed at her several times in the stomach, trying to run her all the way through. But it was like attacking the hide of a rhinoceros.

Throwing the weapon down, Tad then shot out again with his hot dogs, hoping to at least put an eye out with Jo.

The officer saw the dogs approaching her face…

…And abruptly she grabbed them and stuffed a couple into her gaping jaws, biting down as hard as she could.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAGHGHGHGHGGHGGHGH!"

The intense agony was more than Tad Hawthorne could ever hope to bear. Now he knew why Kay was all about killing the crud out of the fat fiend.

And to Tad's relief…

SLASSSSSHINK

"Uuuuuuooooohhhhh…"

Kay realized her days-old dream, just as Jo was gobbling a couple more dogs down, as the survivor plunged her katana right into the anus of her enemy.

"That's payback for the probing you gave me, monster!" she cried as she pushed the blade in as deep as she could.

"Uhh…you can't…kill…me," Jo uttered even as she was being run through her renal areas.

Kay ignored her foe, and further foisted her katana into her target's innards as Tad continued to whine not far away.

"My male….equivalent…has bomb…inside his blubber…Ronald…"

And then Jo passed out at last…apparently dead this time.

"Urrrrrghhh!" Kay yelled as she attempted to get the katana out of Jo to strike at other areas…but found that she could not, as it was wedged too deeply within.

"Kay…"

She then straightened herself quickly to tend to her lover as he lay writhing, bleeding from his hot dogs.

"She bit me…that horse of a ho bit me…"

"Tad, we've got to get you some first-aid…maybe from the pharmacy at Seon's…"

Tad looked up at his criminally cute girl and nodded in the negative. "No," he said. "I have…a better idea."

He started to look to Seon's, as Kay had suggested…but with a different destination in mind.

"You know, I think I have the best idea!" screamed a voice from not far away.

"Untie these ropes that that porky fker wrapped me in!"

The pair of lovers then went over to help Alyssa Laurent, who has been Jo's latest—and hopefully last—hostage.

"Are you sure you don't want to get any medicine from upstairs?" asked Kay as the crowd of three between herself, Tad, and Alyssa now set into the basement of Seon's to get to the meat processing area.

"No," Tad answered. "If the butcher shop still has what I think it does…it should be more than enough to heal me up."

"I hope so," crowed Alyssa as they ran, "'cause the exit to his place is anywhere but this way!"

The trio pumped along, pushing through the double doors to meat processing in good time. There Kay and Alyssa held themselves, freezing, as Tad ran to the back to check on what he hoped was still there.

"YEAH—ALLRIGHT!!" he exclaimed, grabbing at his fortuitous find,

"Wh-what is it?" shouted Alyssa, resisting the cold as best as she could.

Tad didn't say anything, but rather just emerged from the back carrying a sausage rack hand in hotdogged hand.

"This should fix me up real quick _and_ enhance my bionic abilities," he said, whisking off a couple of links from the rack and getting to work.

"He's s-some man, K-K-Kay-O," chattered Alyssa as Tad attached tons of sausages onto his new arm.

"Yeah…" nodded Kay as she watched her lover, "I've had a meat market mentality before…but this is ridiculous."

Tad sniffed a small laugh to himself as he heard the ladies talk. He'd kind of had his eye on Alyssa as well…but he really couldn't complain, what with having the Krispy Kreme nestling of love that was Kay Nelson.

"There," he said, lifting his new arm to show it off, the orange hot dogs replaced by cream-colored sausages. "All better."

The greatest hero of Willamette had gone from Frank to Frankfurter and now this.

Kay and Alyssa looked on in admiration, smiling down on his new extension.

"You better be better…" said a voice behind the girls, "because I'm still looking for a lad…or a lady…to lick my lovely larvae."

Standing at the door to meat processing was now Tad's nutjob nightmare, holding his handgun in one hand and the spare hair of another familiar survivor in the other.

"You just get the hell away from here, Kent…and get the hell away from Ronald," said Tad, ready to shove his sausage down the boy's throat. (Kent's, not Ronald's…although Ronald would certainly appreciate it, of course).

"Hahahahahahahahahaha! I don't think so, Tads-Nads. You might be interested in what I have to tell you."

"We're not here to hear you tell us ANYTHING!" shouted Alyssa, walking up to Kent and lifting her own handgun at him.

The pipsqueak psychopath didn't waste a second, but rather lashed out with a sudden jump kick that knocked Alyssa onto her back and her handgun several feet away.

Before she could recover, Kent leaped over and put his own gun to her head.

"Any of you people move and I'll blow her away!" Kent yelled, pushing the butt of his gun hard against the red's head. "I'll…"

"I'VE HAD…"

Quickly Alyssa batted the gun away from a shocked Kent, who was so full on himself that he was more focused on finishing his sentences than he was with maintaining his most recent hostage situation.

"I've had…" repeated Alyssa, as she then pushed Kent to the ground and started running for her handgun.

"I've had…"

In the next few seconds, Kay was upon Kent with the bloody machete she forgot she'd had in her short short short short short shorts all this time along with a few other items, and Tad had joined in with the meat cleaver that the butchered butcher had left behind. The lovers took turns tearing into the little lout, and soon he appeared deceased once more.

As Tad got back to his feet after slaughtering Kent, he turned to Alyssa, who had retrieved her handgun. "What?"

"What?"

"What have you had? You said 'you've had' something."

"Oh," said Alyssa, discarding her catch phrase for once "Just forget it."

"Tad!"

The man turned at the sound of his voice as he heard Kay. "Yeah?"

"Get over here! It's Ronald!"

"Sure thing." He ran over to his girl, a part of the back of his mind wishing that someday Alyssa could change her phrase to "I've had Tad," and looked to see what was wrong with the rotund Ronald.

"It's…it's something down in my stomach…" said the fat man, clutching at his intestinal area intensely.

Tad looked at him in disbelief. "Something you ate actually didn't agree with you? And what are you doing out here?"

"I went…I went out to find some food…of course, there wasn't enough in the security area," he said. "Looks like you have plenty on you, though…literally."

Tad glanced at his new sausage arm a second, then back at Ronald. "Jo, the blob of crap cop—sorry, Ronald, I mean, 'calorie challenged' officer—said that you had…you had a…bomb, or something?"

"Y-yeah…that might be it. Kent and Jo…they fed me a well done steak…I took it down, thinking it was just like any other meal-of-the-minute…but there was something else inside of it."

What not even Kent and Jo knew was that the bomb that they found, briefly after recovering from their near death experiences at the hands of the photo hero, was actually a sixth explosive left behind by the terrorist who originally marauded through the mall.

And not only would the resultant boom destroy the entire area…

…it would release the bugs everywhere from Boulder to Beijing, and all places in between.

"It's a bomb, Tad," said Kay, "he has the bomb inside him, just like Jerkoff Jackass Jo said!"

"Alright, alright," said the new hero, "let's do what we can. I'll do my best with what God…and Super Joe…gave me."

He started to reach towards Ronald's mouth with his sausage.

"Save the freeloader," Kay said solemnly.

"Save the world," Alyssa murmured with equal gravity.

So everyone felt like Heroes at that point…just like that show with…Hayden Pantyair and all.

Minutes later, Tad had successfully extracted the bomb from Ronald—through surgically exact sausage handling down the large man's throat—and had given the thing to Kay.

"Your sausage saved us all, Tad," Alyssa said.

Tad nodded confidently in return.

"Taddy, what do we do with this, now?" Kay held up the bomb in her tiny hands.

"Let's just get it and ourselves to Super Joe. He'll know what to do then."

"Right," said Kay, sticking the explosive down her nanoshorts.

And so, Tad, Kay, Alyssa, and Ronald—the last of these still hungry and hung over from the traumatic sausage experience he'd just had—paced out of meat processing, leaving the supposed carcass of Kent behind.

But what Tad hadn't realized was that he'd also left something else behind.

His Bionic Tonic.

And Kent wasn't quite kaput either.

"Come on, folks…just through the warehouse hallway, just like our Uncle Frank showed us," Tad said, waving his three companions into said warehouse area from Paradise Plaza about thirty minutes later.

"Tad…" said Kay, stopping a second to place a hand on his non-bionic shoulder, "I want you to know that you have been the greatest hero of the whole world today. Not any homeless photojournalist. You."

"It was nothing, K…"

She didn't let him finish as she slopped into his lips with her own, her tongue reaching farther into him than any sausage arm into a slopbucket's stomach.

Many seconds later, Alyssa: "Guys! We have to keep moving!"

Tad finally disengaged from the woman he adored. "Okay," he said, thinking _Oh, Kay_ so deeply within.

But there would be plenty of time for things like this later.

As Tad and Kay ran to join Alyssa and Ronald, they saw the latter two break off to the right as soon as they reached the end of the hall…

…because Super Joe was waiting on the catwalks above, waving them along. He had his automatic rifle in one hand and a grenade in the other.

"Let's go!" he said. "I'll get you to our chopper topside!"

And then, just as Tad and Kay started to reach the end of the hallway…

They were met from around the other end of the nearest catwalk by, impossibly, Jo and Kent. Again.

"YOU'RE BOTH DEAD!" bellowed Kay.

"Not anymore!" yelled Kent back, shaking his left arm at the girl. Tad noticed that suddenly Kent's left appendage was covered with tiny wieners the size of those of pigs-in-blankets.

"You seemed to have…left something behind!" continued Kent, as he brandished his pathetic imitation of a bionic arm and shook the Bionic Tonic flask in his other hand. "I took it upon myself to take down a bit of this too…although I'm not quite as developed as you over there."

"Between you and me, I'll always have the bigger sausage, Kent," said Tad.

"Yeah? Well…EGGGH!"

The petite psychopath reached out with his kind of bionic arm…and his wieners only made it a foot before retracting again. It was all Kay and Alyssa could do to keep from busting out shrieking in laughter at this.

"EGGGH! Uh…EGGGH!"

Kent tried again and again to grasp out, to no avail.

Then Jo took over the scene.

"You all also left behind someone…

"Someone named Simone."

"Uffff! Ufffff!" peeped another voice from behind a couple of catwalks.

"You metric ton of human waste," Kay said furiously. "I'll rip your…"

BOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM

The unexpected explosion shook everyone onto their asses a second. All survivors looked around as they tried to figure out what just happened.

"The Special Forces are getting more and more aggressive out there," shouted Super Joe from above. "We have to get out! NOW!"

"I'm not letting _any_ of you leave alive," declared Jo, beginning to approach with her nightstick and stun gun once more.

"Tad! Take this!"

Super Joe suddenly threw his un-pin-pulled grenade down to his nephew. Then:

"Tad's girlfriend! Here!"

The old Capcom hero then tossed his automatic rifle to Kay.

"I'll go see to that Simone girl! You, balding gorilla, and drop dead gorgeous redhead, follow me to the elevator!" Super Joe then jumped down from the catwalk as Ronald and Alyssa followed close behind.

Jo turned her head to see the other survivors scurrying away, then turned again to face Tad and Kay. Just as she did so…

WHAAAAAP-A-CHANG-E-CLICK

GULP

The live grenade that Tad shunted toward her with his bionic sausage was crammed thoroughly into her mouth.

It didn't even have time to go down into her gullet as…

BOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM

…Her head instead registered the explosion, the melon so bloated blowing apart in all directions.

Upon hearing that last blast and the resulting destroyed noggin, some rather patriotic music played in Super Joe's own head.

Because nothing is more patriotic or American than a person's head exploding.

"Get away from us, Kent, you little douche!" yelled Kay with more than renewed vigor as she fired the automatic rifle at him. It was all he could do to leap out of the way of the gunshots, and he still caught a couple as he flew off the floor and into oblivion.

"Tad, you get to the elevator with the others. I'll take this little masturbator out."

"But, Kay…"

"Just do it! I'll be right behind you."

"Alright." Tad ran after the others indeed.

"Now, Jo," said Kay, approaching the unconscious Kent and the decapitated Jo while pulling the larva bomb out of her underwear, "we're gonna see just how much your fat ass can swallow…headless or not."

There was no time for Super Joe and the survivors (which sounded like a neat name for a mid-twentieth century rock n' roll band) to get to the security area or the heliport, what with all the explosions occurring around them. Joe, Simone, Ronald, Alyssa, and Tad all quivered with anticipation as they readied to reach the rooftop.

"What happened to the Captain?" a Special Forces agent, who looked retardedly like George C. Scott, said to another inside the helicopter which was waiting outside on the roof. "We cannot wait any longer. We are going to escape now!"

"Please just wait little longer," replied the spoken-to soldier, who resembled and talked like a one-year-old. With his infantile eyes he looked out one of the chopper's windows. "Hey, what's that!"

As explosions continued to occur and sirens inexplicably blared, the survivors reached the rooftops at last. Quickly all but Tad scurried to the waiting craft.

"TAD!" yelled Super Joe, back at his nephew. "Come the hell ON!"

"NO! I have to wait for Kay!" Tad shot back. "I'm not leaving without her!"

"Damn it…okay. Look," Joe reached into the helicopter and handed his relative a couple of major ass explosive weapons.

"Whoa," was all the young man could say.

"It's a rocket launcher for you, and a bazooka for your lady friend," said Super Joe. "Just in case. Do what you have to do…we'll be waiting."

"Taddy!"

Tad looked over as he shouldered the weapons. "KAY!"

"Tad…RUN! RUN! It's coming, oh my God, it's coming…!"

"WHAT! WHAT IS?!"

As Kay ran to her mountain of man-love and embraced him tightly, then received the bazooka and held it close to her two other bazookas, the elevator door behind her exploded open.

Out came…

…yes, one more time…

…those two.

Kent looked the same…but this time, Jo, still beheaded, was on her feet and looked somehow bigger than ever…more beastly…

…more _bionic._

"What did you do down there?!" Tad yelled at Kay, pointing his rocket launcher at the psychotic pair.

"I…I just…"

"And where's the bomb?! Do you still have it, for the Special Forces?"

"I, uh…"

What Kay knew was that she took a second in the warehouse to insert the larva bomb into the farthest reaches of Jo's belly.

What Kay didn't know was that Kent, supposedly unconscious or hopefully dead, had taken a second, subsequently, to pour the rest of the Bionic Tonic down Jo's throat. Perhaps the overfat officer could handle the drink when the piddling photographing amateur himself could not.

And it certainly appeared that Jo was handling it pretty well.

"Look! Look now, Tad! Tad's girlfriend!!" yelled Kent, showing off his latest ugly accomplishment. "_This_ is the greatest bionic boon to all mankind! I call her…

"SUPER DUPER JO!!"

Snapping his fingers, Kent then barked, "Go, Super Duper Jo! Show those sulky survivors what you are made of!"

As if able to listen to her masturbating master through her bionics, Super Duper Jo bent over, exposing her insides to all…

…and the biggest bionic bratwurst ever issued from inside her throat, grabbing Kay by the waist.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO KAAAAAAAAAAAY!" screamed Tad, readying his rocket launcher…

…but then realizing he could strike his lover in the process, put it back down.

"Hahaha, Tads-Nads!" screamed Kent back in glee. "There's nothin' you can do now…nothin'! And even if you do manage to take us down this time, I've have yet another hostage…"

Kent went around behind the elevator bay for a second to go retrieve said hostage, who was the dazed, by-now-delirious Dana Simms.

"…and I'm all ready to feed my larva to her…or should I say, feed her to the larva, just like your girlfriend in another few seconds!" He pointed to the blown-open neck of Jo Slade, which was now attempting to absorb Kay within her.

Tad shook his head. "You just don't understand, Kent," he said.

"What?!" said the man-boy.

"I said that no one's sausage is superior to mine. Not yours (certainly)…"

WHAAAAAP

Faster than lightspeed, Tad struck out with his bionics again, cracking Kent upside the head just as he placed his handgun to Dana's temple…

"…and not hers!"

WHAAAAAP-A-CHANG-E-CLICK

"KAY! HANG ON!" Tad cried as his sausage wrapped around Kay's right arm. "Come on, baby…please…"

"Tad…" Kay did all she could to reach for her lover, as Dana ran to Tad's side.

"Is there anything I can do?!" she asked the hero.

"Get behind me!" Tad yelled. "Pull with all you can!"

Nodding quickly, Dana linked her arms around Tad's torso and yanked backward as hard as she could. _Hmm, she's not too bad either,_ he thought of the new girl as she held him.

WWWWWWHHHHHHAAAAAAPPPPPP

"Ungh!" cried Tad, Kay, and Dana as Tad's gal was mercifully wrested free of Super Duper Jo's brazen bratwurst embrace.

Behind them, the helicopter's rotors began to spin, faster and faster.

"Get to the chopper!" Tad yelled to Dana. "We'll finish this!!"

Dana did so, as Tad and Kay recovered their explosive weapons.

"Ready, lover?" asked Kay.

"Ready, lover."

Opening up and holding nothing back, Tad and Kay unleashed all hell with their rocket launcher and bazooka, respectively, the explosive shells seemingly destroying all that remained of Kent. Tad then aimed at Super Duper Jo.

Kay placed a dainty hand on his weapon. "Tad, no…"

"What?"

"Just leave her. I'll explain later…"

And then, just as the chopper began to lift off, Tad reached out with his bionic extension.

"Okay, Kay…hang onto my sausage!"

"AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!"

"GASP?!" gasped Kay in shock.

Although the helicopter was effectively beginning to get away—with Tad and Kay attached to one of the runners via Tad's sausage—

--Somehow Kent was still goddamn alive.

And hanging onto Tad's pant legs.

"I'll beat you, Taaaaaaaaaaadddddddddd…."

"That's it."

CLICKUP-AKUP

Tad first raised himself and Kay up to the runners, so that the latter could be helped up into the vehicle's cabin.

Hanging onto the runner itself, Tad then reached out with his bionics…

A-CHANG-E-CLICK

…and grabbed Kent right around the neck.

"SUCK MY SAUSAGE!!"

And then, just as Kent's hands instinctively went to his neck…

…Tad retracted said sausage…

…sending Kent into open space, back down towards the exploding Willamette Park View Mall…

…and the clutches of Super Duper Jo.

With a juicy shunking sound Kent landed head first into the opened neck of Super Duper Jo, his legs kicking high in the afternoon air…

…his beady eyes looking just in time to see the countdown on the larva bomb, which he never knew existed inside her, tick down from 04 to 03 to 02 to 01…

"OHHHHHHHHHHH SUPER DUPER JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ…"

ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka ducka

DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK

DJABANGABANG

mitchy mitchy mitchy mitchy mitchy mitchy mitchy ….

As the survivors, Special Forces, and Super Joe all slouched with exhaustion inside the tiny helicopter (which had the most pitiful little rotor, like it was some of budget chopper not unlike the "junker" that flew the photojournalist over), Tad looked all around the cabin…to Alyssa, to Dana, to Ronald.

To his Uncle Super Joe, who was glancing over warmly at him and the others, then going back to reading _Man and Superman_, which was not a comic book but rather a play by George Bernard Shaw.

To Kay, the love of his young existence, who would mother several children for him, including Ladd Hawthorne, who would go on to become the first really famous bionic commando…and who would eventually be ancestor to Rad Spencer, another such hero further afield. Yes, the legacy from Tad to Ladd to Rad and several other 'ads would never be forgotten throughout the history of mankind.

And then Tad looked to Simone, thinking, as did a doll-faced survivor from across the security area in another reality…

_What a paradigm of female perfection that is, over there._


	25. Scooping Ground

AIRDUCT ANECDOTES ANTHOLOGY: SCOOPING GROUND (OR, WILLAMETTAL GEAR GAS)

(CHAPTER ONE)

It was well below the Willamettan surface, deep within the bowels of the once-well-maintained tunnels—long since abandoned by personnel, anyone alive, and even any undead—it was down here, inside of a dingy butcher lair and inside of a bright blue shopping cart, that Fiona opened her eyes.

The young woman shook intensely within her commercialistic binds, her body acknowledging ruefully that such confines had never been so tight since the time of her captivity in that _other_ estate she inherited. Most uncomfortably Fiona twisted within the cart, she herself unbound but more than inconvenienced by the fact that she was surrounded in the cart by various discarded and somewhat decayed segments of the human body.

Several human bodies, that was.

She did all she could to fight off the urge to retch and give herself away. The preternaturally unlucky heiress wanted to try to remain as hidden and inconspicuous as possible, given that she did not know if she were actually all alone here at the moment. Configuring herself so that she could see through the side of the cart, Fiona's eyes shot up and looked through the cube-slats of the plastic azure conveyance which held her.

Suspended from the ceiling were several slabs of meat, each hovering heavily from the slightest of slick chains. The girl hoped desperately that she would not discover any humanoid forms amongst these perishable hulks. There were otherwise freezers and other such containers lined all along the walls, all of them emanating a misty miasma from within.

The sound of something lightly slapping a liquid…lapping, it seemed, then caught her attention. Fiona stopped to give an overtly, somewhat-inappropriately sly look from within the cart, not unlike a similar bizarrely inappropriate, inexplicable look she gave from a cage at the commencement of her last confinement (given her circumstances). What caught her eye this time was a grossly large container, looking to be the lovechild of a bucket and an out-and-out slop trough. From her vantage point between the plastic slats, Fiona could only see the bottom four-fifths or so of the container, and nothing along the top of it. Painted along the side, in bloody red letters, was _PHOOEY_.

"Phh…"

…and just then, a mangy gray form…a head, maybe?...sprung from the top of the trough-bucket, beyond Fiona's limited field of vision.

"BAR-BAR-BAR-BAR-BAR-BAR…"

She could not see it, but Fiona could certainly hear, and even feel the form as it began to back away from the trough-bucket, then commence to launch itself speedily across the modern dungeon. Its louse-ridden gray fur rustled roughly against the side of Fiona's cart as it sped past; the heiress could not help but topple out of the cart as the form sprinted away, leaving the double-doors of the butcher area flapping to and fro.

It was then, as Fiona was struggling to her feet for the first time since she could remember, that faint flashes of the recent assaulted her mind. _A rickety junker chopper…her American aunt and uncle screaming in the front seats…she herself screaming in the back along with Hewie, her prized white German Shepherd, in unison as something whooshed and struck the side of the copter…_

…then she noticed for the first time as well that her beloved canine companion was not here. Once more, the young woman was starting out in a strange, foreboding place all on her own.

Then Fiona also noted that she was not decked out in the tight, form-fitting quasi-Victorian blue and white blouse-skirt-boots trifecta which, she realized in time, were the most happenin' threads she had ever worn, and which she had committed herself to wearing day and in day out since she absconded from that horrid castle estate. Nope, Charlie Brown would soon change out of his yellow-background-and-black-zigzag pullover before Fiona would give up those archaically alluring duds. What she had on now, instead, was a boorishly oversized blue jacket and…not much else. Not unlike the towel which she barely utilized to cover herself in her first period of peril, Fiona hugged the jacket close to herself and treaded carefully around the dreary room.

The following ten minutes or so consisted largely of Fiona Belli gathering her bearings and looking for her trademark fabrics in vain. It seemed that if she wanted the beginning of any kind of answers, or especially salvation, she would have to follow that haggard gray, seemingly canine form which whizzed past her just now. Hopefully, as with that terrible estate she left in Europe, a pooch would help in a pinch for her once more.

(CHAPTER TWO)

Very tentatively Fiona pressed through the shaky doors which flapped ever so slowly, quietly, and eerily. She pushed through to the dank, hardly-illuminated reaches before her.

The entire passageway was empty; at least it seemed so at first. There was the faint odor of something terribly rotten, as if there were some legion of the nonliving who once convocated in this very area. Now, though, it appeared to the harried heiress that she was the last body, alive, dead, or undead, to occupy this space…

"BAR-BAR-BAR!"

There it was again! Fiona's frequently-freaked eyes widened to the size of Spicy Meatball plates.

"BAR-BAR-BAR!"

It sounded as if it were coming from the white-and-salmon-hued truck directly ahead. Carefully, cagily, Fiona approached the vehicle, specifically the rear doors facing her. The young woman paused before acting further.

What if this dog were shacked up in there with another sexually-deviant…stalker, born and existent only to chase her and make her life miserable? What if that gray form which whizzed past her—which she assumed was the thing making the sounds in the truck—were not a dog at all?

Fiona's feline-killing curiosity got the better of her. She had to know. With a hearty pull she tugged at the truck's rear doors.

Her jaw dropped when she espied exactly what was inside.

It was a dog—a poodle indeed, grayish-white to be precise, still proud but goddamned if it hadn't been groomed in weeks, if not months. It wasn't so much admiration or pleasant surprise that she felt, though, when she noticed that the canine was chewing on nothing less than a long, aquamarine tank most likely containing enough explosive material to detonate at least this section of the tunnels.

Fiona thought fast and took an educated guess at the thing's identity. "PHOOEY!" she shouted, waving her arms at the dog to keep its attention. This occurred at the exact moment that the poodle wholly bit through the nose of the apparently explosive container.

At this the veteran captive instinctively covered her face with her puffy Willamette jacket sleeves, braced to bear a blinding and booming blast which, on the brighter side, might mercifully deliver her from further pursuits in being pursued incessantly by those of the stalking ilk. When Fiona continued to press her forearms against her face and the expected detonation never ensued, she carefully, cagily looked out from her protective stance.

What she then saw appeared to be a broken piñata of a flammable canister, with a variety of small, very special items teeming forth from the neck, all of which looked familiar to Fiona.

Too familiar.

"Why," she began, blocking the mutt that must have been Phooey out from her field of attention for the moment, "these are all…mine!" She picked through the stash seeping out from near the nose of the long propane tank.

"This Magnesia, this Antimony, this…chicken jerky?"

What the hell was it all doing here? And who could have lifted all this from her…and why?

"Bar, Bar, Bar!"

Fiona's attention shifted back to the poodle piping up before her. "Are you…you must be… Phooey."

The scruffy gray thing in the truck made no sound or motion or response at first; it then shook its head from side to side.

"Well, I'm not seeing any other slop-slurping gray forms rushing about with terribly-matted fur," said Fiona, hushing her Willamette jacket closet to her body for warmth (as, after all, I never said she was really wearing anything _else_), "so at least for the moment and for the record, you're Phooey!"

"Bar! Bar! Bar!"

"Oh, hush up now and just go with it." She waved for the poodle to come on out of the truck, and it took about fifteen minutes for Phooey to comply but finally the dog reluctantly did so.

And so it was, then, that Fiona and her new canny canine companion Phooey pushed away from that white-and-salmon truck to survey their surroundings further, the young woman's jacket pockets full of as much herbal relief (the freaky and gothic kind, not the mundane yet illegal kind) and jerky as she could possibly carry. The latter was much to Phooey's delight, and Fiona soon found that this pet was much more intimate with its mistress than Hewie ever was because of the bunches of chicken the girl was now smuggling in her tacky jacket.

Fiona noticed to her dismay, when tallying all of her special items to cram into her jacket, that there were two constituents which were noticeably missing. They were her favorites, so much so that, just as the intrepid Dante from another part of this universe called his beloved pistols "Ebony and Ivory," Fiona nicknamed these items "Cagney and Lacey" in honor of the herbs' initials as well as her favorite eighties program. (Though she was raised in England, the young woman was brought up to watch as much American TV as she could, as Ugo and Ayla always instructed her that watching British programming was worse than living in a world of the poisonous substance Weltigo).

"Phooey," she began again, as they rounded their first corner together and beheld the terribly dank, foreboding tunnel ahead, "would you be able to scout ahead and scan for any special trinkets which may assist us? It would be of utmost assistance." Fiona looked pleasantly and expectantly down at her new familiar as she put the above question out most liltingly.

The dog just stood there.

The most massive, prominent pair of body parts Fiona owned strained exasperatingly at this. Yes, indeed; her eyes (and it _was_ her eyes…why, what were _you_ thinking?) rolled ceilingward as she wrested out a piece of chicken jerky to give to—really bribe—Phooey so that the pet could do the girl's bidding.

The jerk worked (although it took more than one…really, neither Fiona nor this author wanted right now to reflect on exactly how many pieces it took to get Phooey to go), and, eventually, the dog bumbled ahead, yapping this way and that into the thick darkness ahead. Wanting to test the pet before proceeding any farther, Fiona hung back, waiting for Phooey to produce something for her from the tunnels. The girl waited about twenty minutes—about ten times as long as she might have waited for Hewie to come back with a helpful bit of herb or something or other.

"Bar, Bar, Bar, Bar, Bar!"

Fiona looked up from a crouched/huddled position along the tunnel wall, a hopeful glimmer in her world-width eyes.

And over came Phooey, the poodle's puffy tail wagging, the mongrel's albino afro waving through the thick air…

…and a dirty orange pylon clasped between its drool-drenched teeth.

The beleaguered damsel's jaw dropped at this. "…Bad girl!" she chided the dog, waving her finger as she got to her feet. "What the devil am I to do with this?"

Fiona turned the cone over and over in her hands. She wanted to drop it to kicking level and give it a good boot, but a) again, she didn't have a "boot" to boot with, as all she had on was the tackiest of jackets (to the gross, blueballing dismay of just about every hetero male who couldn't be there at the moment); and b) the pylon was rubber anyway, so it wouldn't provide the satisfying, frustration-venting "smash" that countless knee-high red pottery pieces provided Fiona during her time in that overseas crooked castle.

Well, she figured, she may as well hold onto the item. After all, like, a small wooden bridge miniature didn't really seem to function as anything useful at first at her European estate—until it served as a key item for the erecting of the causeway to her final challenge there. …Oh, that wacky, lecherous lightspeed-crawling invalid…how could Fiona ever forget those episodes of sheer fun.

Some more insipid barking from Phooey broke Fiona out of her reverie of rumination, and the dubious pair continued on through the tunnels. After all of this, the duo had really only rounded their first corner beyond the butcher's sanctum. Fiona began to walk a bit ahead of Phooey, making for what appeared to be a hint of daylight from another corner up ahead.

"VvvvvvRUFF!"

The young woman's attention was abruptly diverted when her canine familiar bolted ahead, baying along in the most petulant manner and disappearing around the nearest turn.

"BAR! BAR! BAR!

"UHHurn…"

Fiona blinked in abject fright. That last sound the dog uttered didn't sound too promising. "Phooey?" she called tensely, tentatively into the air ahead.

An arm then shot out from the opening before her—one unconnected to any torso, mind you—hurtling across the breadth of the corridor and slapping against a large green sign indicating the general directions of tunnel subdivisions. Fiona then noted that hulking towards her position was a humongous human shadow—one even larger than that of her dreaded, debilitated playmate in the castle. She craned her head over in trepidation to witness the emergence of the most gigantic gentleman she had ever encountered. He was a decuple-decker bedroom bureau of a man, with a flesh-colored steroid-laced gumdrop of a head and a huge, growth-hormone-enhanced haybale of a belly. In his left hand was the meanest, sharpest meat-converting cleaver Fiona'd ever laid eyes upon.

In his right hand, by the mutt's wretched neck, was Phooey.

Before the young woman could so much as scream (she wasn't usually wont to do much more than that anyway...well, maybe she could run away also), the haybale gumdrop bureau brought the contents of each of his arms close together, the powerhouse of a person poised to pulverize the poodle in half with the most famous and deadly of butcher's implements.

Then he caught a whiff of the living thing in his right hand, and brought the mongrel closer to his nose and sniffed.

He paused, then viciously chucked the dog away from him, Phooey soon careening off the directional sign in much the same way the disembodied forearm did a moment ago.

"Meat no good," he decided, rather brusquely. "Need…"

…and then he looked down, straight at Fiona, and smiled a somewhat innocent, somewhat deviant smile.

"…_fresh."_

In a very free, jolly, blubbery fashion, the cleaver-bearing, heaping helping of human waved his free arm and his knife arm up and down, as if priming himself for his next catch—for his next kill. This was Fiona's usual cue to take off running, screaming, seeking a place to hide madly. She did so…

…but it was tough down in the tunnels, as there were no apparent hiding places close by. What else to do, then, but retreat back, back to the starting point from which she came…

…and into the very lair which this obnoxiously obese stalker most likely originated? No, there had to be another way.

The spooked castle survivor contemplated all of this as she rounded that first corner back towards the butcher's lair. She then noted the uberconvenient staircase right next to it, thought to kick herself for not taking this option in the first place, and headed full dash for the steps and hopeful salvation.

It was just as she took the first step upward that the butcher had himself rounded the corner, and thus caught sight of the direction in which she was heading. Fiona knew she had to keep moving.

(CHAPTER THREE)

Five minutes later, the ghostly-pallid girl had pushed her way through endless mounds of bodies and other debris piled up in the supermarket above the tunnels. As she reached the checkout aisles, a freakishly childish report of "WHERE ISSS YOU?" sounded from the double doors near the meat section.

Fiona didn't bother to look back as she nearly crashed into the sliding doors leading out into North Plaza.

_Let's see…where to go, where to go…_that _Ripper's_ didn't make much sense, as Fiona wasn't a fighter, and would most likely have caused more slice n' dice damage to herself than her pursuer (and this despite the fact that even a Pleistocene-Epoch photojournalist could learn to hack and slash with the best of them after a brief trip to that blade emporium). She decided she'd be better off just making a mad dash to the closest, most complicated clutter of objects and doing her best to conceal herself within it.

The trouble was that here, in the underdeveloped, not-quite-renovated-or-finished North Plaza, there really wasn't any clutter that was completely all-obscuring. Fiona would find this out the hard way as she huddled behind a giant, boxed-up metallic coil in one outlet, she doing all she could to contain her breath and composure and make herself otherwise inconspicuous, all for the benefit of about three minutes' peace from the oncoming, flesh-cleaving creature.

She was crouched there, blood pounding in her head, in addition to a bizarre theme of "dee dee, dee DOO, dee dee, dee DEE" (which always played in her mind when chased by deadly overbearing, oversized oafs), she distracted too by a light blue baseball cap which she was tempted to don (she could swear, offers of costume changes in the most unexpected places, in this mall)—when suddenly the horizontally-nailed plywood planks behind her exploded with the massive girth of her stalker, the butcher bursting through the see-through outlet partition as if only mere air separated himself from his prey. Fiona narrowly avoided being cloven in half as she took to her feet once more and set off for somewhere else to hide.

Fortunately for the young lady, she was much fleeter and nimbler than the psychopath lagging behind her. She pushed past a red sign pointing to _Huntin' Shack,_ noted that such a locale stored firearms, and thereby refrained from considering the place (there wasn't a weapon in the world that Fiona was generally capable of using), electing instead to sprint towards a pile of cardboard boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling in a space to the left. To her delight, Fiona found that she could easily move the boxes around, and before the butcher could even reach the abovementioned red sign, the boisterous blonde Belli had nestled herself snugly underneath one of the largest containers.

Fiona once more did all she could to slow her breathing, remembering quickly that she had a Sedetio buried deep within one of her tacky pockets. Swiftly she retrieved the special item and took it in, the girl experiencing almost instant relief at the product's ability to remove her state of panic at a preternaturally rapid rate. As she lay there, allowing her eyes to shrink from the size of dinner plates to those of their dessert counterparts, she thought to herself that she was rather sly, that she was pretty stealthy, not unlike a headbanded hero from another universe who took in substances much more harmful than the ameliorative herbs Fiona herself did. To be sure, the Castle Belli abscondress would never have smoked any cigarettes—she was always much closer in essence to her own prized albino hound than she was to FOX HOUND—although some of the substances she took to calm herself were not too far removed from a variety of medications taken to slow one's heart rate while sniping. Fiona had read somewhere, though, that a number of those "pam"-suffixed drugs contained popular side effects such as drowsiness, indigestion, and of course, death—just as stated on a number of popular sleep-aid commercials in the States.

Fiona continued to lie there, wondering how well she or Hewie would fare against that goddamned monkey in the jungle in one of that hero's minigames when suddenly, and abruptly once again, the bottom of her world fell out from under her—or rather, the top of it, this time, as a vicious cleaver swing knocked away the girl's cardboard concealment all at once. And there, once more, was that metallic-booted, grimy-undershirted giant looming above her, sizing her up as a piece of meat—and not in the way that American guys did to her in the nightclub, or the lounges, or the supermarket, or the sidewalk, or at the veterinarian's (including the vet himself), or anywhere else on this whole freaking planet, what with her alluringly impossible figure. She could naught but take to her feet and scurry off once again, while the seemingly dimwitted behemoth behind her still reeled in the victory of uncovering her position anew.

Still clad only in the tackiest of light blue mall jackets and nothing else, Fiona hugged the fabric to her as close as she could while sprinting the length of North. She looked desperately at mannequins less clothed than herself, and wished so dreadfully that if she were to go down this time, she could at least do so with dignity and literally in style, rather than in starkers. For the first time since she left the tunnels, the girl wondered whether that waste of canine that was apparently named Phooey had survived the man-monster's hurling of her dogself against that directional sign. That mongrel seemed so clueless that to murder it was most likely a mercy anyway.

"FRESSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHH…"

At this Fiona turned, she now whiter than Hewie at his most well-groomed. She could see that the hulking stalker was at the opposite end of the hallway—but for the first time was also starting to break into a slight, lumbering jog. Matters were being kicked into the speed round now (such as it was, with this oaf's general lack of celerity), and Fiona had to switch from "outrun" mode to "outfight," or at least "outthink."

She looked ahead of her and noted the large, long, overly intricate scaffolding spread all near the sliding doors to that _Seon's_ market. Determined, she reached up and grabbed at the closest wood planks upon which she could hoist herself, and dragged her bodacious self on up. Fiona figured that she could take a breath, just one small heave, once she righted herself on that first piece, but no sooner had she cleared its height with her legs than a cleaver clanged against a post supporting it below. Somehow, the creature chasing her had closed the gap, ever so abruptly.

Forcing herself up once more, Fiona padded ahead, her footfalls wobblier than any she ever effected in that European estate, her feet shirking fleetly away from repeated knife strikes reporting from below, strikes which the butcher delivered again and again to the bottom of the scaffolding supporting the girl. By the time Fiona reached the fifth section of planking around…

[SHHCRASSSHHH…]

…the deafening thunder of a collapsing support behind her wrenched her head around once more to look. The beastly behemoth had managed to knock out the supports of the third scaffolding in, and level the planks down as a ramp to run up so that he could now be at Fiona's level again. Shock registered in a frazzle-wracked look upon the beautiful maiden's features.

How could these supports hold this porcine psycho's weight ever so readily? And he was advancing ever closer toward her now, cleaver sheening sharper and shinier than Fiona thought she saw in the last hour or so.

She climbed again, to the second set of scaffoldings, three stories up now. If she tumbled down at this point, it could well be "Acta Est Fabula"ville for her. There were no longer any places to run to…no places to hide (not as if hiding had really worked against this cleaving clock-cleaner anyhow)…

"WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!"

"Shut up, my forrrmmer fressshhhnessssss…"

"WOOF!"

It sounded from the dark gray utility cart in the corner on the floor!

Could it be…?

Fiona arched her head over the side of the highest level up, searching painstakingly for her cellmate in all of these consternating circumstances, her heart's balm in every time of strife since the castle…

"Hew…"

"WOOF!"

The bulk of butchery beneath the girl hunkered on over in the direction of the cart. He waved his cleaver menacingly overhead. "I said for you to HUSSSHH, forrrmmer fressshh…"

"WOOF! WOOF!"

Fiona knew it couldn't be anydog else.

"HEWIE!"

"WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!"

At hearing his mistress's voice, the white German Shepherd _sprang_ from the degrading place in the cart in which he butcher put him. So high did Hewie vault into the air that he landed on the first tier of scaffolding, squarely next to the stalker threatening his one and only.

In unchecked frustration and rage, the psychopath raised his cleaver, blindly set to cut someone in half, somedog in two, some _freshness_ in twain…

…but it was Hewie now that the brute wielded as well, not by the neck as with a far inferior breed, but rather atop the arm as the Bad-To-The-Biscuit Shepherd had all of his pearly whites clenched hard around the hulking man-monster's massive forearm. The villain flailed his arm all about, thoroughly unable to shake neither the canine (nor its own set of canines). In the burliest of manners the butcher fumbled about the tier, futilely assaying to chuck the dog away, to no avail. Hewie just kept holding on for all his dear dog years, not letting go for an instant.

Finally the stalker reached the edge of the last section of scaffolding on the first tier. Fiona saw that if her compatriot in Gothic survival had continued to latch himself to this even greater beast, the two of them would both go sprawling over.

"Hewie! HEWIE! Let GO!"

But the dog would not take heed. Maybe it was because he was sick of the stalkers, maybe it was the eerie gleam of the cleaver on this occasion…Hewie would not let this other animal get away. Steadfastly he held on, his teeth ever clamped to the psycho's arm as the latter began to teeter on the edge of the rickety plank.

"NO!"

The young woman's cry was lost to the two animalistic combatants as they toppled together over the side of the scaffolding. And even though it was only the length of one story, the combined mass of the butcher (who had gorged himself endlessly on slop since the undead outbreak) and the German Shepherd (who had been force-fed his dreaded least favorite—onions—since he was found after the junker crash) was sufficient

[SMA-CRASSSSSHHHHHHHHH]

to have the pugnacious pair burst through the floor of North and down to the dank and dingy tunnels below.

Fiona could do naught but clutch the most pallid of human palms ever to her superhumanly sallow cheeks. She stayed like this for three minutes, her anxiety-addled mind unable to take in the apparent fact that she had been reunited with the Great Shepherd…and he had been lost to her, once again, in the course of only a few fleeting moments.

After beginning to gather herself together by forcing down a Quies or five (the special item being more quelling than a Quaalude, alliteratively speaking (as always)), Fiona found the strength to start back down the scaffold. Just as her feet found the floor anew…

"Bar! Bar! Bar!"

She couldn't believe it. In the past several instants, in which she wished for the Almighty, and wished by her Azoth for her canine familiar to return to her, she found her request granted…

…and she ended up getting back the wrong damn dog.

It looked, though, as if Phooey were circling the opening to a branch of North the girl had not explored before…almost as if the poodle were beckoning for her to follow.

Fiona shook her head in exasperation, nearly in defeat. "Ah, well." She had trusted more in hounds than in humans these past several years anyway, so she figured that she could not be steered wrongly by this newer canine guide.

She had to admit to herself, though, as she paced hesitantly behind the ever-yapping Phooey, pacing across a windowed walkway not unlike those one would traverse at various American airports, pacing across to a new plaza with all sorts of bright, vibrant colors promised at the walkway's end, that there was a sense of foreboding lurking within her.

The alien sensation of the odor that utterly knocked Fiona out, the second she set foot in the new area had completely confirmed this inclination.

(CHAPTER FOUR)

A dream of being strung up alongside so many slabs of beef, with that beastly behemoth from the tunnels and North giving his vicious (if juvenile) smile, had frightened Fiona to the point of waking.

When she opened her eyes, she found that she was strung up in fact—but the butcher was nowhere in sight.

What was in sight, though, was something which was at least equally, if not moreso, unsettling.

The good news was that the girl was not suspended from the ceiling of a slaughterhouse. He even better news was that she could feel more fully clothed now as if—and checking herself a second later, yes it was the case—that she had on, once again, her pseudo-Victorian blue-and-white duds from the majority of her adventure in the Gothic estate. Right down to the bitchin' brown boots.

The bad was that she had been hanging by her hands from what she could swear was a giant pink something—a bear, maybe?—she couldn't tell from her vantage.

And there were about a half dozen young women below who were gazing up with completely blank, unperturbed faces.

What was more frightening than anything were the segments of track, seeming roller-coastery sorts of track, which were suspended off the ground and trailing right to her hovering position, about two stories up.

"Ahh, my little eluder…you are awake."

Fiona couldn't see who was speaking, but knew that it wasn't any of the women underneath.

"BAR! BAR! BAR!"

And she certainly knew the thing to which that other voice belonged.

Before Fiona could try and figure as to the person to whom the former voice pertained, she made herself known. The comely castle crasher's face screwed up in disgust as she beheld a decrepit, elderly woman, with shoulders a bit too rounded and large for someone in her age demographic, whose beadily-ocular features actually brought her father Ugo to mind a bit. It was in quite the same way that stalker's face at the estate had brought to mind…

No, wait…oh, _no…_

"You awaken…my choice, my charming Clam."

"I don't, I…" and then Fiona felt all at once taken aback and disgusted more than anything else. "What do you mean…Clam?"

"Allow me first to introduce myself," the old woman said, "to explain my superficial, and then my true identity…and then I shall reveal your own in turn."

Then, before Fiona could even react facially (much less verbally) to this: "I am one whom most have called…Lindsayia Harris. This," she added, pointing over to the left, to the poodle who once briefly accompanied the palest of azoth maidens, and which now made itself known with a vicious grit, is my dearest daughter…Madonna Harris. You, my Clam, had…scooped her up and brought her back, brought her back…to me. Back from the cleaver-clutches of that hulking one…the one known as Larrytaze Chiang. For this, I am indebted to you.

"At the same time, however, it could be said that my Madonna…scooped you up, and brought you to us. Brought you to your destiny. Brought you…home."

With this last, Fiona could see the six or so young women below her looking over, almost as if in unison, to the crazed cootie addressing her. It seemed, though, that a couple of the girls' heads had wavered a bit while doing so.

"You," continued the insane geriatric gal-ghoul, "have been known to man as Fiona Belli. And this," she pointed across, to perhaps the other hanging support from the giant pink…whatever it was that was hanging Fiona by her hands, "is your own canine familiar…"

"HEWIE?" Fiona couldn't help but cry out. She wrenched her neck around to see if she could catch sight of her beloved hound. And once more, at the sound of his mistress calling his name, Hewie indeed responded…but with a far inferior answer than the one he initially gave in the unfinished North.

"HRM, HRM HRM…"

"Such a pathetic cry from one who was so loyal to his lady," said this Lindsayia, shaking her head to the point that her dandruffy afro had begun a scalp-sourced blizzard. In another two seconds, Madonna-Phooey followed suit. "Your…'Hewie' belongs now to my own baby…and not unlike the vicious mantis-mate, she will commune with your own…and then devour him."

"Hrm, hrm, hrm…" Fiona's own had sounded worse than she had ever heard him.

Lindsayia cleared her throat, then continued her haughty harangue. "You, Fiona, are now to be known by your true name…the name which will follow suit with the other titles I have bestowed upon the denizens of Willamette, in keeping with my favorite narrative of all time…you will now be known as…

"Plasma Clam."

"Plasma…?"

"Not unlike the renowned Solid Snake, who, yes, occupies another universe divergent from, and actually competitive to our own," said Lindsayia, with amazing cognizance of the Capcomverse's place in relation to the universe of one of its greatest and most time-honored publishing rivals, "you, too, are to own a title which contains a Christian name of a known state of matter…and an animal surname of a most suggestively questionable nature. More specifically, too, 'Solid,' of course, has been taken, as has 'Liquid'…you, yourself, transcend classic states such as those, so you go straight to 'Plasma.' Also,…"

"And what does that make _you_, then?" Fiona cut in, uncertain as to whether she was more upset at her present predicament generally, or the dubbing of her new codename.

"I?" the insane elderly woman said in reply, crossing her arms over her broad, masculine chest. "As I do not transcend to your level, I am merely in the league with the traditional states…I am to be known by those who would address me…as Gassy Clam. It is, after all, the state of matter by which you lost consciousness upon initially reaching our domain…and as it was done by the implements at my disposal, the title fits me well."

Fiona thrashed against the bonds holding her hands in place just above her head, uncaring as to whether she would likely fall if she were to free herself. "It fits you because you're full of hot air, you hateful, heckling hag!"

"AWOOO!" chimed in Hewie from the other side of the giant pink whatever.

"Yes, well." Lindsayia walked over to the six young women standing at the foot of the pink monolith. For the first time, Fiona noticed that each of the girls was as blonde as herself. "You, I am aware, have had encounters with…clones, is that correct? The whole Ugo and Riccardo and what not back at your castle in Europe. You need to know, Fiona, that your familial connections Stateside are just as sketchy—and just as clone-prone. Only this time…it's even a mite more personal than it was back at the old estate.

"You see, my little Fifi—I can call you that as well, yes? 'Fifi' has been the name of many honorable lapdogs, not unlike my dearest Madonna, in those canines' time—Fifi, you are about to share in the destiny of clones of your own, right here in Willamette."

"What do you mean?" Fiona cried, her eyes dilating once again in fright—the whites of them, that is. "And how many other crap names are you going to give me?"

Lindsayia ignored the girl's protests as she placed a withery hand on the beige office-apparel jacket of one of the blondes, and her other hand on the black evening dress strap of another. "Your clones, my Clam…are cheaper by the dozen…or the half-dozen, as it were. These six, here: Jessicyla, Cheryilia, Mindiaiya, Racheille, Veirleine, and Simoionie… have all been given life, thanks to you. In case you were wondering the purpose of the 'Follicles for Friendship' you were carrying in the silver case on the junker…the one which I'm sure you recall fell out of the chopper just as that first missile hit…now you know."

"You…you wicked…survivor…" Fiona was told by her aunt and uncle that if she snipped off some of her lovely blonde tresses, they could be donated to a foundation, not unlike Locks for Love, but dedicated to the restoration of hair for trauma-inflicted hounds. Could her paternal relatives really have just lured her to the Rockies to feed another stem-cell-esque nightmare?

"I want you to know, though," said Lindsayia, as if reading Fiona's mind, "that your Aunt Ooga and Uncle Ayyeelo had nothing to do with my plan. There was no way they could have known I was still alive…after what they did. Sending me, their long-estranged sibling, a man-eating, a woman-devouring poodle to try and end my life…well, I befriended Madonna, made her my eternal companion and paramo…I mean, best friend for always. My separation from, and erasure from the genealogical annals of the other Bellis occurred long before you were born, also, so there was no way you could have learned of my existence.

"None of the past matters now, though, my Fiona…my Fifi…my Clam. You have come…home."

The young woman put it all together in the next instant. "So YOU were the one who caused the junker crash!" she shouted indignantly. "You killed my aunt and uncle! They were basically my godparents! I'm an orphan all over again, because of YOU!"

"But now, you see," Lindsayia rejoindered, rubbing the back of the obscurest blonde, Veirleine, "you are come into an entirely new branch of family. And we need you…even more than you need us. See, you could always be traumatically broken from the ties that bind, my dear. But we…we all require something that you possess."

"No, oh God." Fiona scrunched her face up in fluster. _Not my Azoth again._ "My Az…"

"Your _Plazath,_" Lindsayia interpolated.

"My…what?"

"We need the essence of your Plazath in order not to survive, but to thrive beyond the borders of the Willamette Estate, my dearest Clam."

"It's not an 'Estate,' it's a friggin' mall," Fiona shot back. _And Plazath?_ she thought. _Is that, like, Jay-Z trying to pronounce Sylvia Plath's last name?_

"Without your Plazath, we are not…complete," Lindsayia continued, sounding now not unlike a crazed mauve-maned maiden who menaced Fiona with a mirror shard wielded like a sword. "We cannot feel pleasure, cannot feel even pain, to the extent that you have…out in the world. It is only through the imbuing of the Plazath that we may progress beyond the bounds of the plazas…beyond Paradise…beyond Wonderland here…beyond…

"Entransssssssss."

It was eerie, the way that Lindsayia pronounced this last one. As if she had some sort of unusual destiny-related connection to it, more so than her sanctum sanctorum here.

Lindsayia sniffed haughtily, then continued. "And this was what I was about to articulate before you so rudely interrupted me a second ago—this, too, is another good motive to have you known as 'Plasma Clam'…'Plasssssma'…brings to mind 'Plazzzzzathhhhh…'"

"And how do you plan to…extract this Plazath…from me?" Fiona demanded.

Lindsayia's teeth grit in a determined, vicious manner. "You do note the redirected Space Rider cart just before you…note the protruberances made to modify the device?"

The girl looked up at the cart again, and took note that there were…needles, of some sort, at the ends of spindly metal arms hanging from either side of the conveyance.

"We will begin with the…Carbo-loading, so to speak," Lindsayia continued. "We are well aware that 'Carbo' was one of your greatest weaknesses at the Estate, and here it will be no different. Once you are sufficiently Carbo-loaded, sufficiently put under, we will then begin the Plazath-producing-process. Your most intimate essences will belong to all of us in no time, my Fifi. To all of us!

"And before we begin…I owe it to my assistants here to properly introduce them, beyond the names I have just rattled off. You see, also in keeping with that well-storied—and overly cutscened—narrative from the competing universe, these ladies have suffered much in their brief lives…dealing with being cloned from a mixture of your own beautiful chromosomes, my Plasma Clam, and those gathered from the hairs of survivors who absconded from this mall long ago…they are all Blondes In Distress, BIDs as I have dubbed them…'Biddies' for short. Take them together with the wondrous female canine that is my Madonna, and here you have it—the BIDDY AND THE BITCH CORPS!"

"BARRRRRFFFFFF!" crooned Madonna immediately after this declaration.

Yes, readers, the Biddy and the Bitch Corps…patterned off an infamous cadre of female warriors in Snake's last great conflict, the name for the group taken from a famous fairy tale—just like other lesser-known threats the Solid One had taken on, some also folklorically designated such as the Little Mermaid Platoon, or Snow White and the Seven Warheads, and others with even stranger names like the Lb-Lc-Ld-Lf-Lg-Lh-Lj-Lk-Lm-Ln-Lp-Lq-Lr-Ls-Lt-Lv-Lw-Lx-Ly-Lz.

(Metal Gear fans get it.)

(Nevermind.)

"Once our Corps derives the Plazath from your magnificent body, Fifi…we shall first take out the remaining threats in Willamette, whom I have also dubbed in the style of that excellent competing narrative. We shall trounce the war veteran in the hardware store, whom we know as Machete Groundhog; we shall overcome the overly-fleet outcast, Molotov Gazelle, who is more faux-Goth than your entire adventure in the European Estate; we shall crush the meddlesome goateed amateur photographer in Paradise known to us as…Camera Pansy."

"A pansy's not even an animal," Fiona said to this.

"SILENCE, PLASMA CLAM!" Lindsayia boomed. "And with this, it is enough chatter! Ready the machinery at the modified Rider controls, Jessicyla! We must begin the Plazath extraction NOW!"

The young girl suspended from the giant pink whatsit had to think fast. She was good at running, and pretty okay at hiding (though apparently she wasn't as great at it as she thought she was, after North Plaza), but she wasn't much of a speaker.

As she watched Jessicyla go towards the controls for the modified Space cart, with all of those needles to control, Fiona found a voice that she never knew she had.

"Ladies…BIDDIES!" she yelled, looked at the other five blondes beneath her. "LISTEN TO ME! You don't have to follow this old farty lady's orders! Yes, she may have given you life. She may have given you an opening into this teeming, horrid and foul stalker-filled world of ours. If you serve her mission, though…you will be siding with all of those stalkers. You think this will make you any different than…Machete Hedge…hog or any of those other goons around here? You think that Lindsayia is a Blonde In Distress like yourself?"

"I WAS a blonde, once!" exclaimed the menacing Madonna-mistress from afar, as she started towards knobs and dials that Jessicyla failed to manipulate in her paying attention to the Plasma gal.

"Yeah, like…thirty years ago!" Fiona continued, Hewie on the other side starting to growl in support of his love's words. "That case expired a long time back for you! But these girls still HAVE A CHANCE!

"Listen to me, all of you…you have to strike now…strike while the Gas is…dissipated, in her task. Strike out at her, and break away from the pull of becoming a stalker yourselves! The Plazath does not gel with your compositions; it will only distort you and make you something other than what you are! Something far, markedly WORSE! DO NOT LET THIS MADWOMAN DO THIS TO YOU!"

And then Fiona looked down at the women beneath. A few of them, like Cheryilia and Veirleine and Jessicyla, had their teeth as set and gritted as much as Lindsayia did a few minutes past, with eyes fixed full of hate against the dainty castle survivor. And a few of them, like Mindiaiya and Racheille and Simoionie, had their teeth set as well…

…and gazes fixed in hate against the much more gaseous Clam who had contained them all this time.

The melee that ensued was more blondie than it was bloody, but it was still heated. Mindiayia struck out with a toy cube at Cheryilia, the latter of whom was in the former's way towards the Gassy Clam. Cheryilia blocked it with a gumball machine, ramming the orb portion of the device into the other Biddy's solar plexus. Racheille kicked a soccer ball at Veirleine, who deflected it with a red saucer; the sporty projectile shot straight up into space and landed roundly and roughly on Lindsayia's hapless cranium. "CLAAAAAMMM!" she exclaimed in the frustration of defeat.

And Simoionie struck out at Jessicyla, who was running back from the modified Rider controls to join the fray. The first blonde was seemingly at a disadvantage, as the second had regressed into her crimson-pupiled undead form and lashed out therewith; however, the former managed to dodge the other's charge and use her momentum against her to send the acquaintance-now-turned enemy careening into the bottom of the humongous pink whosit.

The impact Jessicyla made upon striking the big pink thing was so great, in actuality, with all the turned blonde's supernatural strength that it, as well as a few subsequent impacts upon the item from which Fiona hung, had caused the enormous roseate monolith to begin to tip backward, towards the window bordering out onto Leisure Park.

"Hewie…" Fiona cried out uncertainly, as she quivered with unending nerves, "I think we're going overrrrrr…"

"ARRRF?" was all the Good German Shepherd could say in response. (Not that he could really regularly _say_ much else anyway).

Indeed, the gigantic pink setpiece continued to totter back…back, back, until…

[CRRRAAASSSSSSHHH]

The resulting blowout of the windows of Wonderland caused the involuntary defenestration of Fiona and her faithful familiar, much to the dismay of the Gassiest of Clams. Also to the latter's chagrin, the tipping over of the pink colossus—which Fiona could now see was a giant bunny, now that the crash made for shards that cut through her bonds—resulted in the crushing of the back legs of Madonna-Phooey, who was busy relieving herself for the umpteenth hundredth time behind the roseate rabbit at the time of the impact.

"CLAAAAAAMMMMM!" hollered Lindsayia once more, as she watched her arch enemy and her animal companion escape from her clutches. Specifically, the shout emanating from Gassy was not unlike one emitted by Cam Clarke, the voice representative for Solid's own arch nemesis—and even though that voice was also that of the leader of the old-school animated Ninja Turtles, as well as that of the protagonist in Akira, his anguished Liquid scream often came off like that of a third grader portraying the angst of a defeated main enemy while playing with action figures—and Lindsayia's paroxysm here was no different-sounding.

(CHAPTER FIVE)

Fiona fully came to a few instants later, after the initial shock of being thrown out of the large bordering window. It was not the case though, of course, that she only had her binds cut in the impact—both she and Hewie were bleeding badly from the crash. "Hew…" she started, as she lay there on the grass of Leisure Park, reeling from her injuries. Inside Wonderland, the Biddies were still brawling amongst themselves while Lindsayia's shrill inflection could no longer be heard.

"C…Cag…ney…"

The girl reached out into space for special items that weren't there. Her precious Cagney and Lacey were nowhere in sight, those items which were her favorites for reducing stamina and panic, respectively (although there were, technically, other items which were stronger for panic…she just liked "Lacey" best).

"WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!"

With supercanine resolve, Hewie forced himself to his paws, and took off before Fiona could even register that he was up.

"Hewie…"

And then Fiona passed out.

It was just about six minutes later, but the rescuing St. Heward was already back—and with herbs from God knew where. The dog nudged his mistress gently, yet quickly, as crashes and shouts from within Wonderland began to subside.

"Mmm…Hewie?"

The Awesome Shepherd was there for her, with a Recreatio in his mouth. Fiona managed a weak smile, then grasped at the item and took it in. When she was able to do so, she sat up on the grass. "Did you manage to find some Jerky yourself, or some Esca, to restore your own energy?"

Fully understanding "Fifi," Hewie panted and barked affirmatively.

"How did you survive that fight with…that butcher, anyhow?" Fiona wondered aloud. Then she realized that she was talking to a friggin' dog who couldn't really tell her, so she dropped it.

The canny canine then nodded towards some other small items over on another patch of grass.

Feeling at full strength, Fiona strolled on over and retrieved them.

"My Cagney…My Lacey!" she cried gleefully, clutching her most beloved special items—her Camomile and Lavender—to her generous chest.

"MY CLAM," boomed a megaphoned voice out from over a rooftop on the far end of Leisure, near the Movieland Annex. Fiona and Hewie's heads shot up to see what apparently was Lindsayia, now ensconced in a Special Forces chopper hovering over the expanse of the Park.

"YOU ARE NOT LEAVING HERE WITH YOUR PLAZATH INTACT, I MOST READILY ASSURE YOU."

[CRISSSHHH]

At the same time, from behind the European-estate-absconding pair, the wobbly form of Madonna-Phooey emerged from over the sill of the shattered Wonderland window, the mangy mongrel somehow propelled over and out into the enclosed outdoor area of the mall. (She was most likely used as a parting projectile shot from one feuding Biddy to another, and inadvertently tossed out into the Park). Mad-Phoo was, of course, still crippled, as the falling pink bunny had decimated the muscles in her rear legs…her front limbs were still functional, however, and she now used them to push herself forward, not unlike the crazed, ancient proprietor of Castle Belli who chased after Fiona, unbelievably (if briefly) on his own forearms and stomach. Madonna-Phooey could not cruise along as quickly as Lorenzo…but she could still cover the grassy distance decently.  
"LOOKS LIKE WE'RE GONNA HAVE OURSELVES A LITTLE CLAM-BAKE, MY PRECIOUS FIFI," announced Lindsayia from the chopper, the airborne vehicle hovering ever closer to Fiona and Hewie. "MY INCENDIARY MISSILES WILL GRILL YOU AND YOUR COMPANION JUST SO, SO THAT WE WILL STILL BE ABLE TO DRAW THE PLAZATH FROM YOUR BURNED CORPSE."

[WHOOOSSSHHH]

And with that, the crazed old lady fired off the first rocket. The Plasma One and her Shepherd scattered quickly, the latter breaking abruptly right and the former forward, as the missile slammed into the ground where the two stood a second ago, the ensuing explosion rocking both targets off their feet. Fiona instinctively rolled to the side, then resumed her dash forward, underneath the helicopter and in the direction of a wooden awning ahead used primarily for picnicking.

Hewie, meanwhile, took off in the direction of the reflecting pool that was not far from the Food Court entrance. It turned out that the mutt had left a pair of other special items behind from his tussle with Larrytaze, which might be able to assist his mistress further…

…And said mistress would need as much as she could get her hands on, as despite her reunion with "Cagney and Lacey" she was starting to freak out, having been pinned down under the wooden awning by Lindsayia's chopper. The military vehicle fired off missile after missile, the projectiles striking down all around the overhang so that she could hopefully smoke Fiona out rather than do her in completely. After all, the recovery of the Plazath was paramount over all else, and burying Fiona under so much debris would only complicate, if not obviate, the opportunity.

Fiona watched as explosions crashed down all around her, the girl remembering to take a knee upon each impact (to brace herself against the blasts, not to imitate an American quarterback who inspired people all over to embrace, as shallowly as possible, a faith-based gesture which they should have embraced for years—and certainly before it had to go and take a friggin' football player to inspire them in the first place). She watched as a wayward missile took out a decorative stone pillar a brief distance away. She noted Madonna-Phooey working her way around the debris as the pitiful poodle clambered to get to her. "MADONNA, MY BABY," shouted Lindayia from above, "STAY GOOD AND AWAY FROM OUR LITTLE SNIT HERE, OKAY? MOMMY DOESN'T WANT YOU TO GET HURT."

Fiona then saw another missile's blast reduce a nearby table to long, battered boards of wood—and, after about another minute of staring at this last, she got an idea.

Regretting for a second that she didn't have her portable herb-mixing device with her, but then saying "Eff it" to herself and swallowing first a hint of Cagney, then a tad of Lacey, Fiona started out towards the park table remains. Her strength again replenished, her panic minimized, and her wits sharpened with adrenaline, Fiona set one of the battered boards down carefully, then went over to grab first some can soda packs available under the awning, then a large, round propane tank. Another terrific crash from outside told her that Lindsayia was still firing overhead, but this time at Hewie who was rushing back to his lady from the Food Court reflecting pool—and what were those sizeable silver things hanging from his jaws?

No matter. It was more than helpful that Hewie could buy Fiona a few extra seconds by drawing fire. With a bit of oomph, she tore some of the fabric from her faux-Victorian skirt and used it to bind together the board to the propane tank and can sodas, converting the latter two into a base and sort of fulcrum, and the board itself a plank for a sort of impromptu seesaw.

Mad-Phoo was crawling furiously forward in the distance, but Hewie was yet faster. Fifi's beloved familiar reached the young woman first, and set down at her feet the items from his mouth.

"Huge silver boots," Fiona said, allowing herself to catch her breath a second. "I don't really think I need the footwear upgrade…where did you get these, any…" then she caught herself, realizing.

"WOOF! WOOF!"

Those imposing booties were the most interesting part of the butcher's getup, the girl recalled.

"Well, no time for that now. Here's what I want you to do," Fiona said, whispering in her beloved's ear to ensure that neither Lindsayia, nor Madonna-Phooey, nor the reader could know, just as of yet, what was up her frilly, stately sleeve.

"Bar! Bar! Bar!" yelped Madonna-Phooey as the poodle just about reached the Plasma One now, the mangy mongrel disappearing from her miserable mistress's view from the chopper.

Fiona stood defiantly, poised in front of an intact table just underneath the wooden awning.

"Come on," she prompted, as uncharacteristically spiteful as she sounded when chiding Hewie with the same words at the Gothic estate.

"BAR! BAR! BAR!"

It was then, just as Madonna-Phooey initiated her death-charge at Fiona, that Hewie shot out from underneath the table in front of which his mistress was standing.

"BARRR!...?"

The poodle tried all she could to change direction, but Hewie was already upon her. The Shepherd then summarily mounted the poodle, and with hearty thrusts he…violated the undead-outbreak-causing canine with all the Jerky-powered rage and heat that fueled him. "BOOWWWRRR…hrm, hrm, hrm…" was all the pathetic, once-aggressing lady dog could make out.

A moment later, as Madonna-Phooey lay there, still panting from her involuntary "first time" with another dog (and it was only her "first" with another _dog_, mind you…yes, let's not think about it for more than a milisecond), the Hewster, fully gratified in so many ways, nudged the poodle roughly upon the lower-resting end of the makeshift seesaw Fiona prepared.

Satisfied that everything was in position, the Plasma One then ran out from under the awning and jumped to grab ahold of the top surface of it, climbing atop it to spread her arms wide and get Lindsayia's attention. Imbued with a mixture of Camomile and Lavender she called "Camembert," named after the fact that when she ingested those ingredients, in that order, she would have enough strength and confidence to shed her ordinarily fawning disposition and "cheese off" even the Queen of England, she began yelling at the top of her well-endowed lungs.

"HEY!" she screamed, "HEY YOU!

"COPTER PUSSY!"

At this the sleek Special Forces chopper turned in midflight, once seeking out Fiona but its attention now yanked aside by the target.

"YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT!" Fiona continued. "THAT'S MY OWN CLAM-SNAKE-WHATEVER CODENAME FOR YOU! KINDA FITS, DOESN'T IT?"

The chopper loomed closer, primed to fire off another missile.

"I MEAN, THAT'S WHAT YOU DID AT THE END OF YOUR LAST DATE WITH YOUR PRISTINE POODLE, RIGHT?

"DIDN'T YA COP IT? DIDN'JA COP IT REEEEEAAAAALLL GOOOOOD?"

"AAARGH!" Lindsayia screamed back from the chopper as she sent the missile duly out.

Just as she could see the projectile beginning to leave its chamber, Fiona abruptly turned, hopped off the awning, and jumped down onto the higher part of the seesaw, all at once

[RICKA RICKA RICKA]

catapulting, from the device's other end, the disgusting pile of gray-furred poo that was Mad-Phoo high into the air…

…and directly into the oncoming missile's path.

A first-person perspective from just above the explosive projectile would witness a blathering, sorry mess of a canine emerging just into the midair foreground, the piddling poodle with a petrified, wide-eyed face and disgraceful and just all-out sad "BOWRRR" as its body was to imminently intercourse with something that had a far greater "bang" capacity.

And…"BARFFF?

[OOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM]

Madonna-Phooey could not even finish her final plea as the missile blasted her almost totally out of the air and out of existence. Fiona tackled Hewie as the explosion's feedback spread, the girl shielding him just inches from the protection of the awning.

"NNNOOOOOOOOOO!" shouted the voice from the chopper, the vehicle bobbing a bit more than before now.

Then, several seconds later: "MM…MM…MAW PAW MASTIFF! MAW PAW MASTIFF! NOOOOO!" The copter roamed over to the end of the awning where the impromptu seesaw was set up, Lindsayia wishing to get a better view of her love's remains. "MAW PAW…MAW…PAW…" she continued to cry, like some horny hillbilly hankering for an inbred ménage.

_After all this, and still with her stupid codenames,_ Fiona thought as she reached her feet, motioning for her Shepherd to course away with her while Lindsayia was distracted by the death of her own canine soulmate. Just as Fiona was about to clear the end of the awning closest to Paradise Plaza's entrance, Hewie tugged her back for a second. "What is it, boy?" she cried, desperate to get away.

Hewie started to nod back towards Larrytaze's silver boots when something occurred that no one or dog had anticipated. Falling cinders from Madonna-Phooey's wretched body began to fall from the explosion and alight onto the propane tank, which was jolted out from under the battered board in the blast. Said tank, affected by superheated gibbets of missile-pounced-poodle, began to rumble uncontrollably.

The first items to be shot straight up into the air, toward the hovering, mourning chopper, were actually the accompanying can sodas, individual twelve-ounce units firing off from the seesaw's base like the hottest of gatling lead, the containers

[CHNG CHNG CHNG CHNG CHNG]

striking the front of the chopper viciously.

The propane tank itself then basically detonated, the volatile object launching itself up and

[CHCHANG]

embedding itself violently in the copter's cabin. The vehicle reacted in the most aggravated manner

[CHIW CHIW CHIW CHIW CHIW CHIW…]

as it began to propel itself backward, towards the side of the Movieland Annex. "CLAAAAAAMMMMM!" shouted the voice from within.

"Hewie, get DOWN!"

Fiona and her beastly buddy again hit the soil facedown as

"CLAAAAAAMMMMM!"

the chopper threw itself against the brick-wall skin of the Annex, the explosion ten times more deafening than that of any missile fired from the conveyance. The C(l)am-Clarke-like shouts of the anguished Lindsayia reverberated in Fiona's ears for minutes to come after that.

When she was once again able, Fiona braced herself for a brisk sprint through the rest of Leisure, before any of those unturned "Biddies" might strike out at her in the name of their fallen leader. Before she could take a step, though, Hewie again tugged at her.

"WHAT? Oh, I'm sorry, boy." The Plasma One was just so anxious to get going. She looked down, sighed, and smiled when she found her soulmate nudging her, ever so gently, towards those large silver boots that undoubtedly came shin-to-foot from the burly, overly bothersome butcher.

"WOOF! WOOF!"

"Okay, okay," Fiona said as she bent down to inspect the items. "But these are way too large, Hewie."

"WOOF!" and then the hound nodded towards the place where the girl kept all her special items.

"C and L again, you think?"

Just some tongue wagging, very eagerly, from Hewie in reply.

"Alright. Well, since they are my favorites, they're worth experimenting with. Let's see what happens if I reverse the combination, for starters."

Fiona then ingested some Lavender first, and Camomile second this time, as she kicked off her overly stylin' brown boots. Between her now-bare feet and her to-some-extent torn skirt (from when she bound up the makeshift seesaw), her legs were a bit more exposed at the moment than usual. But this was okay because, while Lindsayia might have been the Gassy Clam, Fiona much more definitively sported the Classy Gams. (And she was much more endowed clothing-wise now than she was in the tunnels and shortly thereafter anyway, so she wouldn't complain now).

A second later she stepped into the overly large shoes. Another instant, the footwear immediately shrunk to fit her ankles and feet, not unlike shoes which Marty McFly would find out, exactly three years from now, would somewhat similarly accommodate him (at least in terms of the laces). Indeed, pun very much intended, whereas Fiona before benefited more from the "Cagney" (as in, perhaps an older, more storied Cagney) in her quick, sharp wit atop the awning with Camembert, she was now all about the "Lacey" with getting those shoes on. (I will never make another pun again).

(Probably not).

"That's right," Fiona reminded herself. "This combination makes for…'Lavamile'!"

She knew what would happen next, so she scooped Hewie readily up into her arms. Bracing herself once more, she broke another second into a full, above-human (though not superhero fast) sprint, enabling herself to go about twenty-five miles—sorry, she's English… approximately forty-one or forty-two kilometers…kilometres…there, that's it) per hour. As she paced along, a small trail of sparks and a hint of magma trailed from the shoes. This made her easier to track, yes—but with her velocity, any loyalist Biddies wouldn't be able to catch her before she was long gone.

Fiona couldn't help but think of that old Who song as she sped off with her beloved in her arms, he clutching for dear life with her speed. _Gonna buy a fast car, put on my lead boots and take a long, long drive…I may end up spending all of my Mundus, but I'll still be alive…_

Not that she needed any kind of vehicle with the "lead boots" she had on now.

(And no, John Entwistle didn't say "Mundus" in "My Wife").

(CHAPTER SIX)

Unfortunately, Fiona didn't derive as much from the Lavamile as she'd hoped she would. First, as with special items in other universes involving above human speed, the enhancement only lasted so long per se. As such, she would have only gotten through half of Entrance at most before resuming her normal velocity.

Second, unbeknownst to her at first, Hewie was still very much in heat from his intimate, er… transaction with Madonna-Phooey. The fact that the Lavender/Camomile combo this time generated so much warmth on its own didn't help his aroused state any. Before she knew it, "Fifi" was doing all she could to scoop up—really, even scrape off—her soulmate again and again from various rather large items with which the Shepherd had suddenly found himself…very enamored with.

"Hewie," she said for instance while passing by a toy store in Paradise, "get off that giant Servbot…stop hump…HEWIE!"

And so it persisted in the following minutes, Fiona really realizing that the next quest of hers was to get this dog…repaired once she was hopefully out of this new, horrific estate.

She made it to the entrance to Entrance from Paradise Plaza when the effect of the 'mile wore off.

_Entransssss._

Fiona recalled the way in which Lindsayia uttered the name of this section of Willamette, and shuddered briefly. She felt a foreboding far worse now than she had before in her trip here.

Hurryingly yet cautiously, the girl padded along the ground floor concourse of the plaza, trying to remain as silent as possible. The good was that Hewie was beginning to calm down a bit as well; at least at this point he wasn't assaying to make love to every upstanding object in sight. The canine, in truth, was still stricken with amorousness at this point regardless; Fiona could see it in his eyes.

"I'll secure for you a freaking hound's _harem_ if we get out," the Plasma once whispered reassuringly, looking carefully across the walkway towards the main entrance/exit to the mall. "All the poodles you can pound. Just stay with me for now."

Hewie chuffed softly at this.

The two walked the length of a couple more stores when

"ARRRRRFFF…"

"What now? I…OOF…"

Just as Fiona turned her head to scold her beloved, she was met with his drool-filled grill in her face as he tackled her to the ground. _What, he's trying to do _me _now?_ the thought fleetingly flitted through her mind.

[SLABOOOOOMMMMM]

She then cringed involuntarily as an explosion sounded across the right wall, taking with it an upright plant stationed just underneath. Fiona looked across to the main entrance, about two more store lengths away…

…to see none other than the Gassy Clam herself, standing there dead center at the doors with a remote control in hand and several small missiles, about the size of skateboards, peeking out behind the backs of her legs.

Moreover, upon looking more closely, Fiona noted that the main entrance was far more…fortified than she had expected. In place of what must have been the standard shutter, there seemed to be, rolled up at the moment, a far heavier, much more gothic curtain which would come down. And streaking from the shutter was a tensile cord on either end which stretched out to some sort of engine, which must have assisted in the powering of the curtain (in much the same way that a standard electrically-powered garage door has that overhanging, powering box in the middle of one's garage).

"You…you can't…" Fiona began incredulously as she stared at Lindsayia, at all of what was behind her.

"I was never in the chopper, my precious Clam!" the other screamed in reply. "It was all done by remote control out there! Seems security here really left me a lot to play with…had a lot of fun in the camera rooms up there, sitting back and firing at you.

"It wasn't too fun, though, to watch my baby be BLASTED TO BITS in front of my very eyes! After I try and keep her safe in here, with things like this extra-strength shutter in back of me right now, so she won't get out and make me worry…"

Lindsayia's fingers twitched as she began to configure for the launch of another small missile at her feet.

"It's okay, though," she continued, maniacally, "In following my 'Solid' idol…I have something along the lines of his classic Remote Control Missiles…these are even better, though; they're bona fide heatseekers! In no time, for Madonna's death, I'll have a couple eyes for the eye…some teeth for the tooth!"

"Wait, Lindsayia," Fiona said, as steadily as she could. "You can't just…blow me up. You still need my…Plazath."

"I don't give a POODLE'S PUSSY about the Plazath anymore! There's nothing left to live for, now that my baby Mastiff's gone!

"Poodle's pusssss…you said something to that effect out in the Park, didn't you? Here…"

Another missile then hissed to life.

"Why don't you 'COP' THIS!"

Fiona jumped up and ran back in the direction of Paradise to sprint for cover as the crazed projectile started toward her. Hewie broke straight right again, as he did in the Park upon the chopper's first strike…

…and then the most damned thing happened.

The heatseeker, which Lindsayia originally aimed to go for Fiona, instead curled toward Hewie, as after all…the latter _was_ much more in "heat." Indeed, the rocket shot to the same direction as the dog, and the canine instinctively jumped just as the thing was about to hit home.

"HEWIE!"

Ignoring his mistress's cries, the dog waited a beat for the missile to turn back towards him, as it had shot out a bit too far upon missing him and took a few moments to one-eighty back. Bravely, Hewie sprinted for the stairs starting up to the second floor of Entrance, even reaching the landing between stairwells before the missile endeavored again to strike.

And just as the thing was about to reach the dog…Hewie sprang from the stairwell, in the direction of the engine mechanism to the right of the giant shutter.

The dog managed to drop down in midflight just as the pursuing projectile

[SLABOOOOOMMMMM]

struck the rightmost mechanism, causing the shutter above Lindsayia to creak considerably. Unflinching, the contumacious crone worked for another missile to fire, determined insanely to put an end to Plasma Clam and her miserable mongrel.

"FI-FI…EFF-EFF…YOU!"

The next missile shot out, but again it chased after not the young woman targeted, but her faithful canine compatriot. Hewie dashed for the staircase on the opposite side, but faltered a second as he tripped over a bench in his haste. The dog had misjudged the distance between himself and the missile behind him this time, though, and it was a good thing because it had been much closer than the hound had thought. Because Hewie tripped at the last second, the projectile said harmlessly overhead just as the dog's cranium craned downward with his fall, the rocket sailing on and crashing into the back of the closest store outlet

[SLABOOOOOMMMMM].

Fiona found that she couldn't just lie idly by and watch her dog be fired at. With grim determination and resolve, she picked herself up and set off for Lindsayia. "YOU WON'T HURT MY BABY!" she shouted, in basically as maniacal a voice as the other woman would shout on behalf of her erstwhile poodle. Actually reaching the crazed old woman before she could activate another missile launch (as there were several meters between the two), Fiona put her mug up in the other's far uglier one, and aggressed physically the only way she knew how.

"THIS IS FOR MY AUNT!" she shouted, delivering a swift kick to Lindsayia's left shin.

"AND THIS IS FOR MY UNCLE!" and another shin kick struck home on Lindsayia's right.

"AND THIS IS FOR MAKING SO I WAS STUCK WITH YOUR POODLE PIECE OF…"

"God, just…just CLAM UP!"

And before Fiona could bring about the third and final, most fatal of lower-leg blows, Lindsayia hauled off and punched her, hard and straight in the Belli. (I couldn't resist).

As the maiden protagonist doubled over, in agony and clutching her Belli, the elderly villainess hoisted her remote for the heatseekers once more. She had about three or so more remaining, so there was more than enough opportunity to finish this her way.

But as she looked up to mark where that damn Shepherd had hounded himself off to, she stopped, struck aghast as to what she was about to catch.

It was Hewie, launching himself from the opposite stairwell from before, cannonballing straight into the housing of the other shutter-support engine. Having witnessed Fiona's kamikaze crashes into the chandelier controls during their first climactic battle at the estate, he decided to adapt the move to the occasion.

It worked. Almost all too well.

Almost all at once, after the second engine shattered, the shutter just above Lindsayia's and Fiona's heads came crashing down. Out of breath, the latter could only barely gasp as she pitched forward; the former, though, as she started to fall involuntarily backward in shock, managed to holler(…altogether now, one more time…)

"CLAAAMMM…"

…although the scream was cut short this instance by the abrupt impact of the weighty device, hard and definitive, upon the old woman's chest.

Gathering to his four feet quickly, Hewie, somewhat injured from his last move, still scampered up quickly to Fiona. She was caught under the shutter as well…but she fared far better as her forward fall resulted only in the curtain's clamping down on her lower legs…

…which were securely protected by the durability of Larrytaze's lead boots.

That…and in addition, the fall of the shutter was broken, for Fiona, by the small, orange pylon which Phooey had found, which the girl had managed to use to prop the shutter open instinctively. It appeared that that mangy gray mongrel had helped her, after all, even if a little bit.

(Well, not to mention the seesaw "sacrifice" Madonna-Phooey made out in Leisure as well).

Fiona, still conscious, looked out from her trapped position at Hewie, pleadingly. "Please…"

The dog looked around, seeing what it could do to help his mistress in the jam. There had to be something he could prod on over…

"CLEGGGH!"

It was very likely the worst sound Fiona could have possibly imagined at this moment.

"CLAAAH-EGGGH!"

The girl looked back in horror as she caught sight of Lindsayia, impossibly still kicking, literally kicking her legs in place, blood bursting from her mouth as she tried to utter the young woman's plasmatic moniker once more, her arms flapping slightly like the fins of a fish out of water…

…one hand reaching for the missile remote, which was only an inch away.

"HEWWWIIIEEEEEE!" the girl shouted in a complete panic

[FRRRRRACKA RACKA RACKA]

and then her deliverance came, in the form of the shutter's being yanked up again; in the oversized form of Larrytaze hovering over her, cleaver tucked away in his belt, pulling her by the boots totally out from under the curtain; in the form of Hewie's slight tugging at Lindsayia's foot, so that now her neck was lined up with the foot-wide bottom edge of the heavy, heavy shutter.

Looking at the dog and nodding evilly, the burly butcher let the curtain go again before Lindsayia could so much as even twitch out of position.

[RACKA RACKA RACKSCHHHLOCK]

An instant later, Hewie found himself being waved gently away by the imposing butcher from something that the hound mistook for a gray-and-flesh-colored ball, with a splash of red on one side.

Fiona couldn't bear to look back at what was left of Lindsayia after that…in fact, given her present state, she couldn't bear to do much at all. She was so put out, once again from all of this stalking. So far gone was she with exhaustion and exasperation that she didn't even fight the pulling feeling on the bottoms of her legs_…just let him take me away…it feels almost…_euthanasiatic_ at this point._ (Fiona always thought that was the adjective form for the technical term for mercy killing).

But about three seconds later, the tugging at the girl's legs ceased, and she was left to continue lying there, depleted on the mall floor. She picked her head up wearily to watch as Larrytaze walked off with the one thing—well, two things, if you counted each part of the pair separately—that he really wanted anymore from both of them.

Wanted _back_ from them, in any case.

Hewie barked heartily at something as the young girl could swear she heard some guttural-utterance version of a pleasantry from the burly butcher, but by this point she was too tired to care.

And so it was that, in the course of another third of an hour (real and not mall time), Fiona found the strength to pick herself up and usher herself as well as her canine familiar, out of Entrance and Willamette for good. Fortunately for her, there was a sort of door in the shutter that opened easily from the mall side, but locked tight from the other end. Fiona had no problem with the latter, as she had no designs of returning to this other "inheritance" of hers.

As she started to step through the door, though, she found the fortitude to gaze down at the remains of the stalkeress who had harried her these past couple of hours.

_This time,_ she thought as she stared at the body, then at the face that rested a foot or so away, _you really are dead._

_You…_

Fiona didn't want to think "Bitch" because it would be like she was reinforcing the name of Lindsayia's precious "Corps."

_You Bastardette. You Gassy…you Gas-tard. Gas-turd…_

"WOOF!" prompted Hewie, as if able to read his mistress's mind and fluster.

"Alright, yeah, let's just go."

EST FINIS FELIX

(CHAPTER SEVEN: EST FINIS MISERABILIS)

In an alternate reality, Fiona took a bit longer than a third of an hour to get on her feet. About fifty minutes of languishing at the exit to Entrance (despite Hewie's insistent prodding to leave), Fiona lazily propped herself up and began to stretch. As she was leaning back with her eyes closed, her guard completely let down, she never saw the raincoated individuals coming in time, as well as the happening that she was about to experience another "gassy" moment…

…She then came to about an hour later. Before opening her eyes, Fiona wanted badly to continue stretching, but found that she could not. She then wanted to get up and get away from the fires to the right and left that she suddenly noticed upon seeing them, but found that she could not. She wanted to do anything at all, other than just stand where she was, bound tightly in place from head to toe, but found that she could do nothing.

"Ahh," began yet another psychopathic stalker, this time an elderly man dressed all in white, with silvery hair and an even more silvery sword, "you are awakened, my dear."

"What…what is…"

"There's no need to question or struggle." The man paced the floor in front of Fiona for about a minute or so before speaking again; the girl's eyes darted all about her in the meantime. Was this some sort of…movie theater converted into a shrine of some sort?

And she thought she could hear breathing…an instant later knew she could hear sniffing, light coughing from behind her. With what she could see from turning her head this way and that, the exact same six "Biddies" from before were alongside of her, three to the right and three to the left respectively, each carrying a brazier in her hands.

"My…Beatitudes have informed me that they have encountered you before," said the old man as he ran his hand lightly across the edge of his sword. "Said that you tried to…talk some sense into them."

The young woman's teeth set in anger. "…Mmmnh…they were…they were lost…"

"Mindiaiya, Racheille, and Simoione were with me from the beginning," said the elderly one, "or…at least, since I stole these blonde clones from that wretched old bat Lindsayia.

"That poodle-pushing wench couldn't lead lemmings off the edge of a cliff. She had no place in controlling those girls' destinies. Their lives are precious…even if they are, after all, carbon copies."

"And who might you be?" Fiona asked incredulously. "And where is my d…"

"I, my darling," said the man, cutting her off sharply, "am Seanardzo Keanen…known to the mall denizens now as Claymore Silverfish, thanks to the 'Gassy Clam.' But now that you and that bumbling butcher have dispatched her, it doesn't seem as if we need to follow her regime of names anymore.

"He was, of course, commissioned by me to do the job, Larrytaze was. In return, he would get more than just his boots back. The oaf only pretended to want the footwear back to lull you and your mongrel into relaxing just enough for me and my…Beatitudes to slip in."

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HEWIE!" Fiona screamed at this.

At this Seanardzo chuffed the way Hewie would sometimes. "Your pet is in the capable hands of the man—the butcher, that is. Let's just say…that whole myth about the Chinese serving cats to customers? It's partly true…

"…people just had the wrong species in mind all this time."

Tears began to well up in Fiona's eyes; she couldn't believe that she came this far to have this happen. The thought of Hewie becoming irretrievably lost now, after so many other moments of nearly losing _him_, made the girl lose _it_ completely.

"As for you, my precious golden-tressed treasure, you are in my capable hands, as well as those of these heavenly ladies who will attend to you for all time. I have to say, Fiona, we are all grateful to you for your little speech that you had to rile the girls here…it gave Mindiaiya and the other two the opening they needed to convert Jessicyla, Cheryilia, and Veirleine here over to our side…the _right_ side. And I _did_ need six attendants for all of the braziers, after all.

"And you…you will become the all-important centerpiece of our mission…the cornerstone…cornerblonde, really. The one to bear the sword through the breast, just as you see here..."

And Fiona looked over to the female mannequin, with the sword pushed through, and started to smile uncontrollably.

"The one to become the face…of the BEATITUDE AND THE BESEECH CULT!"

_So despite hating his "Claymore" name, he cleaves to the Snake/Clam nomenclature nonetheless,_ was the castle abscondress's last sane thought before she began tittering, then all-out laughing, insipidly and incessantly.

And then, as she was approached by the "Claymore" (which was the name for a medieval sort of sword, as well as, incidentally, a kind of mine in some Snake iterations), he extending his signature blade toward her with an intensely fervent glare, she went on and on, just as she might have while most dreadfully "expecting" in the worst outcome during her castle outing.

"IHH-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! IHH-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! IHH-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! IHH-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! IHH-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE! IHH-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!"

(And, to complement that most unfortunate outcome, the Willamette piano muzak theme began to accompany her in a descent into lunacy.)

("DUM DA-DUM DEE-DA-DUM, DUM DA-DUM, DEE-DA-DUM…DA-DUM DEE-DA-DUM, DUM…DUM…DEE-DA-DUM…DEE-DEE-DA-DUM…DA-DUM-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE!

DA-DUM-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE! DA-DUM-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE! DA-DUM-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE! DA-DUM-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE!")


	26. Swinging One out of the Park (View)

AIRDUCT ANECDOTES ANTHOLOGY: SWINGING ONE OUT OF THE PARK (VIEW): OTIS'S ABSCONDING

The jaunty janitor knew that soon it would have to be time to make his move. The slick Special suckas flanked him and the survivors in tow in their little security haven. Otis Washington envisioned himself in so many scenarios over the past sixty-some hours, imagining himself the hero that a destitutely-dressed photojournalist was and that he himself wasn't.

But now, with his seeming vacuum-cleaner-belying-'Ball-Buster in hand, he was ready.

What was in Otis's possession at this instant was in actuality the inspiration for the Real Mega Buster itself—the latter of which the maintenance man designed on the side in his spare time for the funky-faced photojournalist's use out there on the plazas. What was really Otis's opus was the 'Ball Buster: what appeared to be a common floor sweeper could actually chuck fireballs at nearby foes, and fend them off. The funniest aspect was that Otis was in reality a pyrophobe; the son of the passionate of preacher men, he hated the idea of hellfire, either here or in the hereafter. As such, he always aimed with the device in such a way, even on the undead.

In this particular unfolding of the key seventy-two hours, at least a couple of the initial, characteristically doomed survivors had actually survived, thanks to Washington's wondrous invention. Sure, Kathy and Alan and Brian and Todd and Freddie and Mark and Ryan and Lindsay and Madonna still didn't make it (not that the last three of these were especially tragedies), but right alongside Agent Garrison, on this rendition, was the Park View pundit himself, letting loose with the 'Ball Buster and keeping a couple of creatures at bay while Verlene Willis and Dana Simms made it to the security area. And for the ensuing couple of days, Otis always had the both of them close at hand, the girls eternally grateful to their wizened savior.

It was indeed the case: over the course of the next couple of days, the glorious old head that was Otis of Willamette regaled the girls with his own exciting (to him, at least) anecdotes regarding the twists and turns of the Willamette mall, of the multicolored mooks who made a meager living as mall clowns—certainly they would have had to snap at some point—of the hoary hacks of hicks who ran their ammunition dumps of outlets. Other such psychopaths. Otis could swear that he at least garnered the attention of the pretty brunette, which was okay because he never preferred blondes like her friend anyway. The wizened Washington merely regarded Miss Verlene Willis as a wingwoman to the far more illustrious and entrancing Dana Simms.

In the now, as it turned out, Dana was still inches away and in crisis, with an EssEff (Special Forces) restraining her from behind; meanwhile, another was across the way, near to where the RMB lay, the unctuous individual holding Verlene.

"Step aside, old man," the Forces nearer to Otis grunted, as he made to usher Dana through with him into the airduct. "Once we have this dame through, you're coming into the vent with me."

Otis thought this would be his big chance, and he tensed himself to do…something with the seeming vacuum in his hands.

A moment later, when the EssEff was indeed escorting Dana horizontally through the airduct, the old man cursed himself.

He figured—hoped, at least, that Dana was safe on the other side, and merely being taken into custody without any bloodshed. He knew he couldn't count on it, though. When he heard the young woman's voice, apparently sounding scared, yet unharmed…then when he heard to sound of the escorting soldier coming back through the vent…he knew now what to do.

Hefting the vacuum into the vent's opening, he pointed as far down the tiny corridor as he could and activated the device. Somehow the ensuing fireball didn't even scathe the soldier within the vent—but the resulting smoke was starting to overtake his lungs mighty quickly.

"{HACK HACK HACK} What the…"

"DANA, THE FLAP ON THE OTHER SIDE!"

And the girl on the opposite end to Otis knew exactly what to do. Having rehearsed hypothetical emergency maneuvers with the janitor in the last couple of idle days—practicing instances that to them would most likely never materialize, but who ever knew—Miss Simms without hesitation pumped over and slammed her end of the airduct tightly shut, just seconds after Otis did his own.

The EssEff within the steel intestine lasted about another thirty-five seconds, then succumbed.

"Hey," started the Special one across the way, as he approached with Verlene in front of him, "you want to try any of that hero stuff with m…"

But the soldier never finished the sentence as the flying flap, detached with force from the airduct, struck him square in the throat.

With Otis's targeted man down, the janitor was more than ready and willing to rush over and receive Verlene as she unceremoniously billowed to the floor. He caught her just before her head hit the ground. The girl once primed to provide moral support to her BFF Dana a couple of days previous, she now was at the end of frayed nerves. It would be up to the wily Washington to get her and Dana—the latter of whom had left him irretrievably smitten—out of there at this point.

The man pushed through to the room in which the busty blonde bureaucrat had once been monitoring the cameras, Otis here with a weary Verlene in tow. When he reached the opposite door, to the survivor room hallway, he stopped, peering through the glass at the melees ahead.

Quietly he grabbed what to him was a key item from a nearby table, and set forth into the hall.

With his back to the maintenance man, another EssEff was trying to force Natalie Meyer along to go with him to the rooftop. The burly behemoth's husband Jeff was kept at bay by a vicious automatic weapon in the soldier's hand. A few paces away, Sophie Richards, along with Sid Carmack—actually alive in this rendition thanks to much quicker moves by the poorhouse photojournalist—looked on helplessly.

Otis took his chance, stepped up, and let loose with the key item he whisked up a second ago. The D batteries in the obsolete red boombox he wielded shook within the plastic casing as the radio came crashing down on the head of the guard holding Natalie. The old fogey of a Willamettan maven had hoped that he could then appropriate the gun from the enemy he had just downed—but Otis hadn't realized just how hard he had struck the soldier—even though the latter had a helmet donned. Perhaps even a mall lifer like himself could have his day, or in this case, his three-day mode.

"Come on, man!" he urged the Meyers and the Carmacks-to-be (with Sophie to become Richards-Carmack, as it were) as he motioned for the survivors to hurry along. As Otis began to turn to his left to look back to Verlene—

-he caught sight of yet another struggle, in the window beyond.

There, in one of the Park View patron pens, yet another soldier was trying to get Pamela Tompkins to come along. He was so intensely into his struggle with the girl that he hadn't even heard the gunfire in the last few instants. Over in the far corner of the room, the girl's twin sister stood cringing. Never, ever assisting her dear sibling, to the very end, was Heather Tompkins.

Desperately Otis sprinted over and splayed the door to the room open. As the Forces's back was to the portal, the incoming door struck him across the back, knocking him to the floor and out cold. Unfortunately, the soldier's weapon fell to the floor along with him, and made more noises than just mere clattering as it spewed forth death in lead.

It was all Heather could do to cover her head as the shots rang out all around her. She was certain that her own personal case was expired—

-when the long bright blue object came crashing through the long window to the room, streaking through air and crashing into the young girl's hatted head.

In fact, the RMB that Verlene threw through the visual portal burst through just in time, as bullets seared through the airspace which Heather's torso occupied a second later…but Heather, the more hateful Tompkins, was already on the ground in agony by then.

Otis didn't realize that the action and heroism he craved was this intense, and involved something happening at every friggin' second like this. A couple of moments and a chocolate milk gallon later, Heather was back on her feet and ready to go.

The consumer cadre was now at the door to the heliport, up the staircase leading away from the survivor hall. Otis could hear the whirr of the chopper outside; given the constant whooshing here and there, it must have been the case that a different copter came in every hour. Well, this one was going to become the escort for Otis—and all of those straggling in line with him.

But no matter what, he wouldn't leave without his dear Dana.

Softly the main maintenance man pressed at the door, hoping not to make any sounds. He could make out some more Special ones, prodding that tall brunette all in red, as well as her voluptuous blonde buddy and their impromptu Goth mallmate, towards the waiting vehicle. Otis knew that in the next several instants, that chopper would be in the air—and once the next whirlybird came, and its occupants found out that the survivors were loose and their soldier chaperons dead, the mall mavens themselves would soon follow.

Otis reached through his item slots for something, anything that could serve as a functional weapon. His 'Ball Buster was all but spent, so that was out.

He then looked and found a possession almost as prized.

Carefully, stealthily Otis stole out onto the highest rooftop in Willamette. He crept up close to an EssEff standing guard—specifically standing guard over the Chinese woman and her own blonde buddy around the corner—and the wizened Willamettan let loose, wielding his old time skillet with great skill. The frying pan found its mark across the soldier's helmet, and again the janitor had downed another enemy. It was just the cold fact that Otis had a swing capacity that was likely even greater than that of his security friend Mark Wilkins several states over—another (somewhat) old head who not too too long ago dealt with his own personal life-or-death crisis. Just something about maintenance and security personnel, and the ability to swing.

At any rate, Otis made it an immediate point to point to the two women he'd just saved, and place a finger to his lips. Jolie and Rachel nodded quickly in implicit understanding as the Coloradan crusader slinked ahead.

He strolled up slowly, doing all he could not to make a sound. Fortunately the wind was kicking up something fierce on this heliport, so the soldiers never heard the initial skillet kill. The janitor was about to take another step when something, a sharp kind of shifting or metallic clacking, sounded behind him; before he could turn his own head, though, the Forces ahead at the chopper did their own about face.

Otis now found himself staring at the barrels of two automatic weapons at about twenty-five yards. The ones whom he believed were named Debbie, Mindy, and Paul were cooped up in the copter already. The janitor figured his goose cooked for certain now.

"You have ten seconds to put your weapon on the…"

And then the instruction was cut off by a giant silvery, spherically-shaped object sailing through the air. The guard closest to Otis's left couldn't put his hands up in time before…

[BOOOOOOOOOOM]

The seemingly superhumanly-hurled propane tank landed just to the left of the helipad, exploding on contact. Somehow the helicopter and its occupants remained completely, miraculously intact…but this was more than one could say for the Forces closest to the explosion.

Then the other soldier, on the other end, made towards the maintenance master with his machinegun…

[BRAAAAAAAAAATTTAAATTT]

…and the sound of automatic fire rang through Otis's ears once again.

But, as the Special Forces fell once more, the old man opened his eyes once more to find himself whole still. He looked behind him, and for certain, there was Sid with his own machinegun in hand—undoubtedly scored from one of the soldiers in the security area. Stupid of Otis not to have salvaged any of those himself.

Sid, though, only looked back to Otis and shrugged. Who opened fire, then?

"YO!"

The heads of all survivors in the heliport area turned over towards the direction from where the airborne propane tank had emanated. Now everyone looked in shock as five figures made their way over the fortified fences. There were three heavily-armed psychotic-looking kids, with one in military greens, another with a really bad baby Mohawk—why was every whippersnapper sporting one of these, these days?—and then there was a most alluring redhead in an even redder dress.

Then, following the two, were Otis's beloved Dana—and another young woman with similarly huge eyes, and a much huger automatic weapon in her hand. Smoke was still coming from the barrel, thus revealing her to be the justified-homicider of the last of the Forces here.

Once the parties were joined, just outside the helicopter: "Otis! This is my sister, Lilly Deacon."

The wizened Willamettan nodded gentlemanly to Dana, who made the declaration, then to said Lilly, acknowledging the waifish young survivor. All around him, Sid and Sophie and the Meyers and the others were making towards the chopper in a most chipper fashion.

In the ensuing minutes, the survivor room occupants would marvel in amazement at the survivalist trio from the Huntin' Shack, and their tale of how they created a gigantic detonate-upon-impact grenade from the aforementioned silvery spherical propane tank, a couple of containers of spitfire as an explosive catalyst, and some spare shreds from the bottom of Alyssa's already-short-to-begin-with dress to hold it all together.

But back now to the janitor, after shaking the frazzled Lilly's hand: "Well, my young lady, you certainly know how to handle yourself with your…weapons expertise!"

The lilting, diffident dame only looked down and smiled shyly.

"You know, though…" Otis went on, crinkling his brow a second, "You did say, my Dana, that she's your sister…and her name is…Deacon?"

The girl spoken to looked at the elderly Willamettan, then grinned sheepishly. "Yeah…I was going to tell you about it, but…

"Simms…yeah, it's my married name."

As Otis and the others all trundled into the helicopter to abscond from the Park View, the journeying janitor shrugged and mused to himself. He sincerely hoped that wherever this husband Simms was, some hostile force had reached him as well.

Yes, a force that was hostile…or at least one which was Special.


End file.
